


The experiment

by thekarmapolice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, F/M, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-11-05 12:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11013591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekarmapolice/pseuds/thekarmapolice
Summary: She entered his shop one rainy afternoon.A Tomione story. AU.





	1. Part 1

 

March 20th, 2004

Her hair was hideous.

No, it really was horrible, resembling something that could have come out of an Alien film.

And, as if her big hair occupying most of the shop wasn't enough, she was drenched and shivering, droplets hanging from her wild curls and her dark eyelashes, the water soaking her clothes and shoes puddling onto the floor, staining the old dusty carpet Burke claimed he had bought from a yeti in India.

 _Can't manage a simple Impervius Charm, girl?_  Tom sneered inwardly, plastering a pleasant smile across his face when the girl walked up to the counter.

"Hello," he greeted her smoothly. His wand was hitching to dry the mess that she was when she kept looking around, seeming oblivious to her ghastly state. "How can I help you?"

"Oh, erm, good morning," the customer said absently, her eyes busy surveying the place around her. Tom had the feeling the woman was growing nervous with each second spent in there- nervous  _and_  confused considering that it was afternoon, not morning. Granted, the sky didn't look much different from that of five hours before, still dark and pouring down rain as it had been for more than a week. It was March after all.

At last, deciding that in order to leave it was better to hurry, the woman looked up at Tom with an uncertain smile.

"I ordered a book. Mr Burke sent word that it was to arrive this morning..." she trailed off, tilting her head. When Tom didn't move but merely kept smiling down at her, she raised her eyebrows and gave a little jerk of her head.

"Many articles came in this morning, I need a title," the young man finally drawled, pulling a notebook from the counter's drawer. He skimmed yellowed pages until he reached the list of items acquired that week. There weren't really that many items, but better let the visitors think the shop was swamped by orders and offers - or so Mr Burke had told him when he had first started working as an assistant at Borgin and Burkes.

Glancing up from the records, Tom found the woman searching her coat, cursing under her breath for a good thirty seconds until she felt what she was looking for in the pockets of her jeans.

Clearing her throat, she slipped a small card on the counter. Tom's eyebrows shot to his hairline upon reading the scribbled words.

His gaze flickering back and forth between the items' records and the girl's card, Tom checked if there was some mistake- there wasn't.

"One moment," he muttered, swinging around. The girl made to say something, but he was already in the back of the shop by the time she probably realised he was gone.

With trembling hands he went for the chest where they put the artefacts arrived in the morning and wasted no time removing its wards with a flick of his wrist. Hidden from view by a curtain, he Summoned the book and then blinked twice when the tome shot in his hands. It was real.

For a good minute Tom awed over the rare book in his hands, opening it gently, careful of the binding falling off. He was feeling it, his magic calling to the words dancing under his wide eyes. Perhaps it was the book that was calling to him.

_If I make it disappear now, Burke will have my balls later._

The girl, on the other hand... she didn't seem that bright.

_I can take her money and Obliviate her easily enough._

Yes, that would do.

Returned to the front of the shop, Tom arched an eyebrow at the sight of a completely different person standing where the girl had been.

 _So she does know how a wand works_ , he mused, peering at her from under his eyelashes while crossing her order in the notebook. The woman was dry now, her mane still wild but appearing more like actual hair. The pool of water on the carpet was gone.

" _The truth of Magick – Beyond the Dark and Light Arts_  by Hereward," Tom read the title of the book lying between them on the counter. "What could a girl like you want with such a reading?"

The woman curled her lips in a stiff smile. "That's this girl's business."

 _Bitch_. Tom kept his own smile in place. "Of course. It isn't my place to ask, I hope I haven't offended you-"

"You haven't," she reassured him. Her guarded eyes said otherwise. "It's one hundred twenty galleons, right?"

"And eleven sickles," Tom nodded, waiting for her to find her wallet or wherever she kept the money.

"Eleven sickles," she repeated, patting down her front and backside.

"That's what I said- Do you need help?" Tom asked, seeing her struggling in her quest. Her hair was starting to stand dangerously about her head as if electrified.

"Thank you, but no," she said, huffing.

She eventually found a small mokeskin pouch in the breast pocket of her coat with a satisfied "There!", and drew out a handful of golden and silver coins. She quickly counted them before handing Tom half of it.

Tom, of course, counted them again, meticulously separating the galleons from the sickles to place them in their right compartments - and maybe that's why he missed it, his chance, because as soon as he finished verifying the payment, the sound of a bell ringing had his head snap towards the door.

"Oh, no- Hey!" Tom called after the girl, rounding the counter in a flash.

He lunged for the door through which she had left without so much as a 'thank you', but she was already half-way in the busy cobbled street, her figure a blur under the shitload of rain lifting dust and a thin layer of fog off the ground- and within the next blink of his eyes she disappeared.

.

* * *

.

April 18th, 2004

When April rolled around, a new wave of customers hit Burke's shop, much to the owner's happiness and irritation, and business picked up a better pace. That meant more missions for Tom to rescue objects of value and to sell items from and to knut-pincher collectors, something he always handled with the best of his skills of persuasion and deception.

Burke still complimented his employee for the more than positive results he presented him, always amazed with how much ease Tom managed to obtain both money and invaluable articles, but what the old man still didn't know after all these years was that Tom had had years of practice as a student at Hogwarts and as a poor boy in a Muggle orphanage. If there was something that hunger and poverty had taught Tom as a child, it was how to sharpen his abilities and that giving up was for the weak.

"Only two hundred for this locket?" Burke whistled, looking intently at the silver locket dangling from its chain in front of his nose. "This is a treasure. You really know how to work your charms on that old hag, boy."

Without anything to say, Tom gave his boss a small smile and the man shooed him away with his hand, dismissing him for the day.

The afternoon sun was a pale disc in the sky, its rays not enough to chase away the cool air lingering after weeks of rain, so Tom hugged his coat closer around his limbs, too lazy to draw out his wand and cast a Warming Charm on himself.

Tom liked solitude, or liked the familiarity of it, having always found himself alone in an empty room or in a crowd since a child, but today, strolling through Diagon Alley, his eyes half-heartedly roaming over the passers-by and vendors and the shop windows lining the busy street showing new products and goodies, he didn't feel like going home just yet. The prospect of stepping in his ramshackle flat just to sit in bed and get his head in a worn out book wasn't appealing.

Ambling down a narrow side street, Tom considered sending an owl to either Malfoy or Nott, but, again, the idea died just as it came, knowing that the company of his friends wasn't what would fill the emptiness that was starting to yawn inside his chest- the sensation that was gradually leaving him utterly frustrated.

Walking back to the main street, Tom sighed, deciding just to go back home and be done with it. Pushing his way through the horde of people heading in his opposite direction, he clenched his jaw not to snap at the jostling bodies stumbling in his feet. It seemed that people were stubbornly trying to get in his way this afternoon.

 _Whatever_ , Tom thought, his gaze catching the signboard of Flourish and Blotts two shops down the road.

The bookshop wasn't packed, but it looked busy enough with the number of customers huddled around the counter and the occasional person wandering down the aisles between rows of floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

Tom hadn't visited the shop in a while, not since the last time he had bought school books- more than five years ago.

And at the age of twenty-two he was still here, working as a shop assistant in a notorious shop of Knockturn Alley- a hole, really, facing on a dark alley frequented by unsavoury people looking for dark artefacts, illicit products or a cheap fuck.

But it wasn't the people that bothered Tom, and neither did his work. No, what made him grit his teeth was the fact that he was still here, that the strings his 'friends' were pulling for him were slow to work and easy to break, that after six years his name was still Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Young and gentle Tom Riddle.

 _Patience_ , Tom reminded himself, eyeing the books stacked on the shelf in front of him.  _Patience._

* * *

When Tom approached the front of the bookshop after an hour of idle roaming between the bookshelves, dread rose from the pit of his stomach as he got in line.

"Thank you, sir. Have a good evening!" a cheerful voice exclaimed from behind the counter.

Nodding, the man in front of Tom tucked his purchase under his armpit and walked out of the shop, making the voice's owner come into view.

The corner of Tom's lips curled downwards.

_Oh no, not_ __her_ _ _._

As if reading his mind, the woman glanced up from the cash register and her smile promptly faltered, but only for a moment.

"It's you," she stated, blinking.

"Me," Tom confirmed, refraining himself from rolling his eyes at the way she was so unabashedly staring at him. Clearing his throat, he placed a pile of books on the counter and slightly pushed it towards her.

"Oh, right," she choked out, busying herself with Tom's purchase. "Big reader?"

Shoving his hands in the pockets of his slacks, Tom shrugged. "Something like that."

Indeed he was buying quite the number of books, enough to keep his hands full for a few weeks, although the titles were nothing compared to what was currently in  _her_  possession.

While the girl checked each volume, Tom bit the inside of his cheek and peered down at her, noticing that her hair wasn't as big as last time. Several soft dark-brown curls framed her face, escaping from her neat ponytail and swaying with the tilts of her head.

 _Not like_ Alien _at all_ , Tom thought, surprised by the stark difference between this girl and the one who had entered his shop weeks before.

He had to admit that she was... pretty. She had pretty eyes, warm and chocolate-like. Her nose wasn't bad either, it was little and pert, a faint sprinkle of freckles covering the bridge-

"-a bag?"

Snapped out of his contemplation, Tom met the girl's eyes again. He frowned at her smile.

"I asked, do you want a bag?" she said, her knowing smile widening.

"Yeah," he nodded. He clenched his jaw, annoyed for some reason that he didn't want to acknowledge. Shaking off the odd feeling, he casually inquired, "So, that book you bought from us, have you read it yet?"

The girl didn't have the time to shoot Tom a warning look that a disembodied male voice cried from the back of the bookshop, "'Mione, you  _traitor_! You bought a book from another shop!?"

The girl exhaled, glaring at Tom as if it was his damn fault that the unseen man had heard.

"It's not what it sounds like!" she replied loudly, chucking Tom's books in a white plastic bag with unnecessary vigour.

"That cliché line only proves you are guilty!"

"Will you throw me in Azkaban if I admit my sins?"

A tall man appeared in the doorway giving to the back.

"Depends on the book," he said, grinning down at the girl, who was now scoffing and shaking her head.

The newcomer was a man in what appeared to be his forties, with greying hair and intelligent green eyes. Scars ran across his face and neck, all faded but looking like something that had been a deep and ugly reminder of pain once upon a time.

He gave Tom a smile and disappeared behind a bookcase. His colleague emitted an exasperated sound before her attention shifted back to him.

Scooping up his bag, Tom quirked an eyebrow. "So, have you?"

"I'm reading it," the girl answered dryly.

"Why?" Tom casually leaned against the counter.

Her smile disappeared, her expression now more similar to the one she had worn that time at Borgin and Burkes. Tom understood his dealer tricks weren't working on her.

"Because it's an interesting reading." She pointed at the bag hung from Tom's arm, "Why are  _you_  buying those books?"

Irritation washed over Tom's face. He wasn't going to waste time buttering her up after this.

"Fine, don't tell me."  _I don't care any more._

Tom briefly turned his head over his shoulder and noticed a reforming line.

Looking back ahead, he found the girl smiling again.  _Bitch._

"Well, thank you for your purchase. Have a good evening," she airily waved him off.

Tom inclined his head in response and walked out of the bookshop.

.

* * *

.

April 28th, 2004

"Tom, m'boy!"

Preceding his belly, the booming voice of Horace Slughorn greeted Tom from the other side of the crowded room.

Tom painted a smile on his face, even when a small part of him was genuinely glad to see his old teacher again. A part that was going to disappear soon enough.

"Tom!" the Potions Master cried when he finally managed to make his way through the mass of guests crammed in the magically enlarged office. He clutched Tom's shoulder and beamed, "So glad you made it, so glad!"

"I couldn't miss your birthday party, Professor," Tom said, blushing and feigning to look around him in wonder. The old man's office extravagantly decorated and covered in silks and velvet was by now a familiar sight, having Tom spent many a fine and boring evenings in said setting- formal dinners, Christmas parties and of course many intimate gatherings for a selected few. Now, those he had enjoyed.

"Oh, now now, I'm not your teacher any more. You can call me Horace, m'boy!" The man squeezed his shoulder, smiling up at him with twin dimples forming in his already pink cheeks. Tom suspected Horace was slightly tipsy already by the way he was swaying on the balls of his feet. "I was so glad when I received your response to my card, Tom, so glad!"

Slughorn sent out invitations to his birthday party every year, but Tom had always politely declined until this very day. Considering the various failures of his 'friends', Tom thought that a direct word with determined people couldn't hurt; in fact, it could only help, appearing in public, ready to handle affairs and willing to sharpen his connections in first person.

That's why Tom was there, forcing himself to mingle with strangers at a sort of party he hated, one he'd had to attend for years as a Slytherin student. He didn't like it, the colourful hangings, the loud music, the sound of munching and laughing- the people.

After twenty minutes of socialising, Tom ducked under a dangling lamp, escaping an old lady hell-bent on introducing him her thirty-two years old daughter, and stalked towards an empty corner, grabbing a glass of elf-wine on the way.

Tom closed his eyes for an instant, the feeling of being crushed between the stuffy walls receding, the air stolen from his lungs returning, setting back the beats of his heart to a normal, steady pace.

"You don't look good."

Tom looked up and Feodor Nott grinned back at him.

His former classmate was dressed to his finest in dark green robes, his dark hair groomed back.

Scoffing, Tom pushed off the wall and straightened his spine. "If you mean to say I'm underdressed, I know. Otherwise, I'm completely fine." He took a sip of his elf-wine (Slughorn did have excellent taste), and added as an afterthought, "Good choice on the tie, it brings out the blue of your eyes. Evelyn's doing?"

"No, the house-elves'," Feodor responded dryly, his eyes narrowed. Tom made to comment but his friend swiftly changed the subject. "If you're underdressed, then what should my brother be?"

He snorted with a glance at a lively group of people chatting in the middle of the room.

Indeed there he was, a young man wearing Muggle jeans and a white Rolling Stones t-shirt under a leather brown jacket, barking in laughter at some obscene joke. Theodore Nott. The picture of blood traitor, the black sheep of the Nott family- Feodor's older brother.

Next to him stood his best friends Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, the first wearing standard dark robes, and the latter dressed more like Theodore in what was surely Muggle fashion at the moment.

Accompanying them there were two girls, both Slytherins if Tom's memory served correctly.

"Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass," Feodor pointed them out. "They all were in the same year."

Tom nodded, already disinterested.

"How's your wife?" he asked, his eyes sweeping the room for a glimpse of other familiar faces.

"Pregnant," was Feodor's answer. He didn't sound too excited.

Tom looked back at him, arching an eyebrow. "You didn't tell me."

"We discovered only yesterday."

Tom lifted his glass of wine. "Congratulations then."

"Don't-"

The rest of Feodor's sentence was drowned out as Slughorn's cries made everyone near their corner jump, the man practically skipping to a much smaller group of people standing not far away from Tom and Feodor.

"There they are!" Slughorn exclaimed, clapping his hands in excitement. "You made it! Best present ever!"

Tom turned his head towards the noise and saw that the group receiving all the attention actually consisted of two people of which he could only see the backs.

"Come on you two, have a drink, have a drink!"

Tom averted his gaze the moment Slughorn thrust two goblets brimming with elf-wine in the strangers' hands and began peppering them with questions.

He was like that, Horace Slughorn, the perfect gossiper, skilled in weaving his web around important people, securing himself a high position as adviser and favours for the future. It also took a lot of passion, doing what he did, speaking with people with very different roles in their wizarding society, British and foreign, and Tom admired him for it. Slughorn could reveal himself to be a great ally in the near future.

"Are you going to wash his brain later?" Feodor asked him, seeming to read his mind.

Tom smirked, raising his flute of wine in mock salute, "I might need a favour or two-"

"Nott, Riddle, join us!"

Suddenly, Tom and Feodor were spun around by chubby hands and the two came face to face with a man with messy black hair and green eyes framed by round spectacles, and-

 _Salazar's sake, not_ her _again!_  Tom felt displeasure welling up at the sight of the woman working at Flourish and Blotts, a still untouched goblet in her hands and an indecipherable look upon her face when their eyes met.

"Mr Potter," Feodor greeted them politely with a small bow of his head, not extending his hand. "Miss Granger."

 _Mr Potter. Miss Granger._ Tom's displeasure increased.  _Of course, Harry Potter, legendary youngest Auror of the century, and Hermione bloody Granger, hero's female sidekick and brains of the Golden Trio, as well as the smartest witch of her generation._

Being two years younger, Tom hadn't had the chance to really interact or look at the Golden Trio for more than three seconds when they had been students, but he knew their names and the adventures they had lived, or what people took as the truth. He hardly believed the three of them had helped a dragon escape from the deepest vaults of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, the safest place of the wizarding world.

__So the bitch girl is Hermione Granger._ _

Yet the third wheel of the trio was missing-

"These two young Slytherins!" Slughorn roared to Potter and Granger, wagging his podgy hand in Feodor and Tom's direction. "Two of the most brilliant students I've ever had the pleasure to teach. Very talented, very clever- why, their potions skills may have rivalled yours..."

Slughorn kept rambling on and on, recalling events of the past, referring to either Feodor or Tom from time to time, but mostly keeping the highlight on Potter and Granger, a gleam in his eyes when talking about the mischief of the trio, how they had managed to dive into trouble and still got away with outrageous luck and the most ridiculous excuses, the year he had taught them.

Tom absorbed every word, trying to connect the picture painted by his former teacher with the one standing before his eyes, blushing prettily and shuffling her feet, speaking up only to confirm or attempt to deflect the conversation onto another subject, failing miserably.

 _She cleans up nice_ , Tom observed.

Granger's hair was indeed nice tonight. It cascaded freely on her shoulders in soft and smooth curls, a few strands appearing golden under the dim light of the lamps illuminating the office.

The girl wasn't wearing much make-up, only a thin layer of peach red lipstick; hugging her figure, she was wearing a simple brown dress reaching mid-tight paired with brown heels, the colour complimenting her chocolate eyes- that were staring back at Tom, questioning.

"Hey," she said, her voice low and soft as not to interrupt Slughorn's speech. "Long time no see."

"Hmm," Tom made, averting his eyes. When he looked back at her, he let his lips curl upwards, "It seems I have a stalker."

Mock indignation flooded her face. "Excuse me, but you're the one who came in my bookshop last time!"

"A mere coincidence. And I wasn't aware it was  _your_  bookshop."

Granger flushed. "It is. It's mine and Remus's."

"Remus?" Tom echoed, the name ringing a bell. Of course she meant the man he had seen in the bookshop last time. "Remus Lupin? The werewolf?"

"Yes. What about him?" Potter interrupted his conversation with Slughorn to snap his head towards Tom, scowling. He demanded again, "What about Remus?"

Tom shook his head, a mask of indifference falling into place.

"Nothing," he said coolly, shoving his hands in his slacks' pockets. "Miss Granger was informing me of her job at the bookshop in Diagon Alley."

Potter made to retort, but fortunately Slughorn interjected with an overly dramatic gasp, "You're still working at Flourish and Blotts, Miss Granger?"

Granger confirmed, shifting uneasily on her feet.

"Merlin, Hermione," the man shook his head in disappointment, "to think that at this time you could have been working for the Ministry, and with an important position at that. Wasn't it your goal, to improve our relationship with magical creatures and fight for their rights?"

"It is," Granger confirmed again. She straightened her back before going on, "And that's what I'm doing. I'm fighting for the rights of a friend who isn't allowed to work at the Ministry or have any other job of importance in our society regardless of his more than extraordinary talents because of his status as 'magical creature'- by helping him in what's now our bookshop. We've bought Flourish and Blotts, a shop now owned by a witch and a  _werewolf_. I hope the position I'm taking, that the shop is taking, sends a message to everyone. First, to our customers, who are increasing in number compared to when the shop was owned by Mr MacDougal...

"You see, I believe actions speak louder than words, especially words sent to the Ministry, who's been ignoring all the letters I've sent about the delicate subject of magical creatures. Yes, I could change our society from within by working for the Ministry, I could change a law and let werewolves and house-elves and many others have the same rights of wizards, but can I change the way people think? No. I need to set a complete example first, make people see with their own eyes that what I'm fighting for  _is_  right."

Tom's eyebrows had shot up at some point during her speech. He had never heard a young woman speak so... fiercely.

Slughorn, who had been rendered speechless, regained his faculty to speak within moments and stopped a house-elf walking nearby (the poor creature had been skirting legs and chairs and carrying a tray over his head the whole evening). The man grabbed two flutes of champagne and handed Granger one, uncaring of the untouched goblet held in her other hand.

"The words of a true lion, Hermione," Slughorn thundered after having knocked back the champagne. "A royal Gryffindor. Mr Lupin is very lucky to have a friend like you."

"The world is lucky this lioness doesn't bite," Feodor commented with a wry smile on his lips - surprising Tom with his sort of compliment to the girl.

"Oh, she bites alright," Potter grinned, glancing over his friend. "She's just restraining herself for everyone's sake. In fact, the Minister is lucky she's not kicking his arse."

"Harry!" Granger swatted Potter's arm, only managing to draw more laughter out of him.

The air around them turned light and playful, remains of tension dissipating in the cosy air of the office, and Tom studied the two old friends interact. Anyone could guess the two had been in each other's company for a very long time by the way they stood close, nudging their elbows, scowling and rolling their eyes, joking as if it was the most natural thing in the world. They loved one another.

It wasn't annoying, the knowledge, but it wasn't comforting either. It reminded him he was nothing like them, that he couldn't laugh like him, couldn't show adoration the plain way she did. Couldn't show love like her. Couldn't feel it.

The thought sent a wave of dread down his guts.

Hermione Granger may have acted like a bitch to Tom, but she surely wasn't one. The way she talked, the way she thought, like a true bloody Gryffindor- Tom could see her as the honest person she was, simple, her expressions authentic.

The smile she wore in the company of someone she loved was mesmerising: it lit up her face, warming her eyes into molten chocolate, making her golden skin glow like a fairy. It was contagious. Even Feodor was smiling.

When Slughorn finished choking in laughter, three flutes of champagne discarded on a table, he knitted his eyebrows, his eyes searching something beside Granger.

"Where's Mr Weasley?" he asked with a double take. Tom didn't fail to notice the question was more for Granger than Potter.

The young woman gave their former professor an apologetic smile. "He couldn't come. He's in Germany on a business trip, but he's really sorry he couldn't be here for your birthday, sir."

Slughorn nodded, interested. "Weasleys's shop doing good, I hear. Good lads, the Weasleys. I had the chance to teach only William before Ronald and Ginevra- pity, I'd have loved the whole set... seven Weasleys, now,  _that_  would have made the shelf."

He paused his little monologue to draw in breath, his eyes turning distant for effect. After that, he shook his head, presumably of memories and regrets, and opened his arms, looking right at Granger with a knowing expression across his tilted face, "And now you are engaged to one of them, a Weasley! It will be quite the event of the year, your wedding-"

Tom's mind went blank, the rest of Slughorn's words unheard. That feeling of dread again. He glanced at Granger's left hand. Sure enough there it was, a simple silver ring on her finger.

Tom clenched his jaw and averted his gaze from her, from them, looking past everyone, towards the nearest window and into the starless night beyond, missing the way Hermione was now standing rigidly beside her best friend, a stiff smile cutting her mouth, her fingers tightening around her flute of champagne.

Tom didn't care. It wasn't his business.

.

* * *

.

June 21st, 2004

He was changing.

His skin was paler than before, his eyes dull, his lips bloodless. His dark hair was straighter, the curls that had once fallen over his forehead now plain locks covering his temples. He charmed them like what they had been before, but the result wasn't the same. It was fake.

His blood was colder.

Tom stared at his reflection in the bathroom's mirror.

He was still handsome, but the beauty was gradually deserting him, he could see it, leaving behind only a shadow of the young man he was.

 _A small price for what I can have,_  Tom reminded himself, reassuring, trying to feel that stir of excitement in his stomach at the promise of power- but it just wasn't there.

He felt empty.

Hours later, in the shop, he was utterly irritated.

"But, sir, I can send the book with an owl," Tom tried to convince Burke, his tone firm despite his mental struggle,  _I won't go there I won't go there I won't go there._ "Or I can notify the client the book's arrived-"

"Now, Riddle," Burke nearly snapped, growing annoyed at Tom's protests, "you've always been happy to go on errands, why the change? Just go and take the rest of the day off."

Tom shut up, knowing that this time he couldn't push. Burke was a reasonable man, but underneath the mask of smart merchant was a snake capable of strangling the victim to death the way he sucked money away from clients, and this implied a tendency to cruelty. Tom didn't want to know what anger could trigger- not that he was afraid of his boss, for Tom himself was likely more powerful and much crueler, but he didn't want to appear a coward or a lazy assistant to begin with. Tom respected Burke and wanted to maintain his façade of perfection.

And so to Flourish and Blotts Tom went, praying Salazar he could enter the shop, deliver the package to Remus Lupin and leave without complications.

Tom didn't dwell on what exactly was complications as he took off for Diagon Alley.

* * *

Salazar hadn't heard Tom's prayers.

Tom stepped into the bookshop and his eyes immediately fell on Lupin and then Granger. Perched on stools behind the counter, the two lifted their heads the moment the bell above the shop's door rang.

Granger and Tom's gazes locked. Tom instantly shifted his towards Lupin and stalked up to the counter to lay the package.

He could feel Granger's stare on him, but he shook the uncomfortable sensation off, his eyes not straying from the man's face as he greeted him and said, "Here's your book, Mr Lupin. I believe you've already paid Mr Burke last week for it."

"I had no choice, boy," Remus grumbled, pulling the package towards his chest to tear the brown paper and inspect the content. "The man demanded the payment in advance... what  _I believe_  is that, had Burke not succeeded in obtaining this book, my money wouldn't have been returned with some piss poor excuse such as the cost of time or whatever nonsense you traders use."

Tom agreed, but said, "Mr Burke is an honest man. He had to use several contacts to reach your book, sir."

Which wasn't true since Burke had tracked down the Potions book in less than an hour.

As if hearing his thoughts, Lupin smiled up at Tom, "You're a good liar."

At Tom's bewilderment, the older man pointed at himself, still smiling. "Being a werewolf has its perks, Mr Riddle... Anyway, feel free to check our shop. Any book you want, you can have a special discount on it."

 _Unlike Burke, I'm generous_ , is what Tom heard in Lupin's tone.

Deeming rude refusing such a generous offer, Tom nodded in thanks and turned for the bookcases while Lupin stood with a groan and left Granger alone at the counter. Walking down the aisles, deeper into the shop, Tom heard the woman hissing at his colleague, "And I'm the traitor?!"

When Tom emerged from the shadows with two books in his hands, Granger was still alone.

She gave him a strained smile before reading the titles of the two volumes Tom had placed under her nose. Her eyebrows arched. "You like your Dark Arts."

"Fascinating subject," Tom shrugged, forcing himself not to tap his foot and count the seconds until he could dart out of the shop.

Granger hummed, checking the books.

True to his word, Remus shouted from the back of the shop to let Tom have a discount of the twenty-five percent.

"He's in a good mood," Granger informed Tom with a tentative smile, putting a fistful of coins in the cash register, not bothering to separate the galleons from the sickles.

At last, Tom looked at the woman before him- really looked at her. He frowned.

Her hair was frizzy, wild curls shooting everywhere. But what drew his attention was her face, pale and tired, her cheeks hollow. There were bags under her red eyes.

It wasn't Tom's place to ask what was wrong. He didn't even want to, knowing Granger would revert to her bitchy self in a matter of seconds. He didn't care either.

That's why he simply said goodbye and walked out of the bookshop.

* * *

The library was deserted, with the exception of Madam Pinch and a couple of professors, those who rarely left the castle, even for the holidays.

A boring life in the eyes of anyone, but not him. Living within these beloved walls had been his dream once. The idea was still sweet, but there were people who didn't want him here and they had told him so without much circumlocution, therefore the plan had changed; if he couldn't teach, he could learn. Surely Albus Dumbledore wouldn't deny him knowledge as well.

Yet Tom knew the old fool loathed the idea of having him in the library. In fact, when Tom stepped into the immense space bathed in the warm light of the afternoon, he immediately felt an insistent stare on the back of his head, almost penetrating his skull. Sighing, he turned around, and sure enough, the headmaster was looming there in a corner, standing with Severus Snape and eyeing him over his colleague's shoulder with suspicion and accusation and outright revulsion.

 _Feeling's mutual_ , Tom thought, walking away. The old oaf could glare at him how much he wanted, Tom wasn't going to let their encounter unsettle him anyway.

" _Tom. What have you done?"_

Tom clenched his fists, heading to the archives, leaving the memory of chambers and blood and a dark-haired girl behind.

" _I know you're lying. Don't choose this path."_

" _I don't know what you're talking about, sir."_

Ten minutes later, Severus Snape found Tom huddled in his favourite spot.

"Riddle", the cold man greeted, running his impenetrable gaze over the parchment and directing books littering the table.

"Severus," Tom nodded, his eyes not leaving the scroll of parchment in his hands.

"It's Professor Snape." He sounded as irritated as he usually looked. Tom sighed when his former teacher took a seat across from him, still eyeing curiously the titles the young man was searching.

"Whatever you say, Sev."

Severus made to protest by banging his fist on the table and opening his mouth, but Tom cut him off by snapping his head up. "How come the library doesn't have any book that mentions Hereward?"

The other arched an eyebrow, "And why the interest, Riddle?"

Tom shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "I had the chance to hold one of his books recently, but I can't find it anywhere. Clearly, Hogwarts doesn't have it."

A smirk graced Snape's lips. "So that's how Granger managed to find  _The Truth of Magick_ , huh."

"You know that b- witch?" Tom couldn't help but vocalise his surprise and annoyance. The presence of that woman was everywhere. She was persecuting him as obstinately as the Bloody Baron haunted the Astronomy Tower.

Severus merely folded his arms across his chest and ignored his accusation, "I doubt you'd find it an interesting reading. It's not about dark magic, but- balance. Hereward talks about the dynamics of magic, mostly. The theory is very effective in potion-making and I would say all real Potion Masters possess Hereward's knowledge."

"He's a grey-sider."

"Let's put it this way."

"What do you know about Ravenclaw's diadem?"

If Severus was surprised by the drastic change of subject, he didn't show it.

"Not much. It went lost a long time ago," he answered slowly. His eyes imperceptibly narrowed. "And I wouldn't ask those who might remember."

Tom pushed back his chair and stood. "I'll keep that in mind."

And he did.

* * *

In a remote courtyard of the castle, in the shadow of a column, away from the last rays of the setting sun, Tom watched the ghost of a woman shy away from him, tormented by ages of pain.

He saw it, when she glanced back at him and gave in, her moment of weakness, the revelation leaving her bloodless lips in a soft whisper.

"We were bound... He did atrocious things... And now for eternity I go back..."

Tom saw it in her eyes, the chains and the blood.

"I'll tell you where it is..."

Tom smiled.

* * *

The next morning, Hermione Granger appeared at Borgin and Burke's, a plastic bag dangling from her arm.

Reached the counter, the woman deposited the bag and, at Tom's barely concealed surprise, said, "You forgot this- yesterday."

Tom stood up, biting the inside of his cheek. He had remembered about the books last night, already tucked in bed and drifting asleep, and had spent the morning wondering how to get them without going back to Granger's bookshop.

"Thank you for bringing them here," he said at last, inspecting the bag with deliberate slowness not to look at Granger. "It's very kind of you."

Tom saw her shrug from under his eyelashes, her hands fidgeting with the buttons of her denim jacket. Her fingers were white and her nails blue because of the chilly air outside-

Tom blinked, only once, the books his hands were feeling forgotten as his eyes lingered on her left hand.

Straightening his spine, Tom made himself look at Granger. He almost flinched at how pale she was, but at least her eyes weren't as puffy as yesterday, though still void of that gleam of determination he had seen during their first encounters.

"Is Remus Lupin making the Wolfsbane?" Tom asked the first thing coming to his mind. Granger lifted a questioning eyebrow and Tom clarified, "The potions book. I shouldn't assume, it's not my place, but I couldn't help but suppose his purchase had to do with his, erm, problem..."

Tom trailed off, unsure how to continue, when Granger made an odd expression. A few seconds passed in which he thought she was debating whether to slap him or not, but then she did something he wasn't expecting at all.

She laughed.

Granger burst into laughter. The corners of her eyes crinkling, the sound of her laugh invaded the gloomy shop.

"His- problem," she chuckled, shaking her head at Tom, her wild curls bouncing on her shoulders, "Sorry, I just remembered- Harry's father, James, calls Remus's condition 'his furry little problem'. Remus hates it."

Granger giggled some more before regaining a semblance of composure. Blushing, she cleared her throat, "We're experimenting. We want to try to modify the Wolfsbane."

"You two alone?" Tom tried not to sound too doubtful.

"Two friends are helping us, actually, a naturalist and a Potions Master."

Having nothing else to say, he nodded. Granger bit her bottom lip and twisted towards the door, her eyes glancing between Tom and the narrow, empty street outside.

Tom's eyes dropped to her left hand again, her fingers now toying with a loose thread on her jacket.

Granger gave Tom a weak smile, "Well, I should go-"

"Have coffee with me."

Tom blurted it out before his brain could stand between his mouth and his stupid instincts. As soon as the words left his lips and realisation hit him, Tom began to pray in his head, _Please say no Say no Say no_.

Granger just kept staring at him, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted, unsure.

 _Wait, I made it sound like a question, right?_  Tom wanted to kick himself.  _Fuck, I didn't._

It had sounded more like an order rather than an invitation.

Granger seemed to think the same by the way she arched her eyebrows.

But then a small smile poked at the corners of her mouth and she nodded, much to Tom's relief.

Rounding the counter, his wand drawn to close the curtains and put on the usual wards, he grinned at Hermione, "I'm Tom, by the way."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of my new short story. It will grow darker from here, a sort of crescendo in the next parts (because I don't want to call them chapters). By dark I don't mean horror, but this story definitely contains sex, violence and a bit of gore in the last three parts.
> 
> I'd love to know what you think of the story so far, where you think it leads. I didn't know myself when I started, though I knew I wanted to write certain scenes, especially the first one at Borgin and Burkes. And as a true pluviophile, I couldn't not make it rain right from the beginning!
> 
> I really hope you will enjoy this story!


	2. Part 2

 

June 22nd, 2004

Instead of coffee, Tom and Hermione ended up having lunch at the Leaky Cauldron.

They were currently sitting at a small table tucked in a remote corner, away from indiscreet ears and hidden from the flash of cameras. A few people had stopped Hermione on their way to the pub and, despite her patient answers to gossip and polite refusals of having her photographed, Tom knew that being famous, even if less than Harry sodding Potter, was tiring.

After a few minutes of easy conversation, Tom actually decided to broach the subject.

"How did you become famous?" he asked around a sip of water, looking intently at her as not to miss any reaction. But Hermione only rolled her eyes and took her time to reply, carefully chewing her food and swallowing before dabbing at her mouth with the napkin.

She sighed. "Harry, Ron and I have the bad tendency to find ourselves at the wrong place at the wrong time too often for our liking."

Tom cocked his head to the side, waiting for her to explain. Hermione sighed again.

"Okay. You want stories," she nodded to herself, leaning back in the chair. "Let's just say that your first Halloween feast at Hogwarts is ruined by a Troll and you and your best friends come face to toe with said Troll... Let's say in your second year you discover a giant colony of Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest that wants to kill you- and, then, your third year, when you hope to have some peace and quiet at last, you run from a werewolf, who so happens to be your teacher, transformed on a full moon- Let's say that life at Hogwarts wasn't boring, not in the least."

Tom's lip twitched. "Sounds like many adventures."

Hermione snorted, "Now it sounds like that, but definitely not when we were running for our lives."

A moment of silence passed between them, in which both finished their meals and Tom gathered his thoughts. He eventually broke the quiet.

"What happened," he said, pointing his chin at Hermione's left hand, now resting on the table beside her empty plate.

Hermione lowered her gaze to her lap and self-consciously rubbed her naked ring finger with her right thumb, feeling for a tiny silver band that wasn't there.

"Conflict of interests," she murmured, peering at Tom from under her long eyelashes. For an instant, he thought her lips were trembling in an upcoming breakdown, but then their corners curled and a weak smile bloomed across her face.

Lifting her head, Hermione cleared her throat, "I was so scared, you know. This engagement- it was a lot of pressure. I don't want to talk behind Ron's back, but sometimes, as a future bride and as a woman, I just felt... under exam."

Her smile broadened. "I used to love exams back in school. But this was too much, even for me."

It wasn't every day that a woman demanded back her freedom by calling off an engagement. Most carried on the mistake until a divorce or an unhappy finale- Tom was impressed with Hermione's reclaim of freedom, but he didn't let it show. Hermione took his unresponsiveness the wrong way.

"Sorry," she said, averting her gaze in favour of her lap, red violently rising in her cheeks. "Such topics- men don't want to hear about them, right? I didn't want to bore you with my-"

"I asked you in the first place," Tom interrupted her with an arched eyebrow, not at her words per se, but at her sudden display of insecurity, so at odds with the front she was used to wearing on her person- strong, hard, impenetrable.

Head still lowered, Hermione raised her eyes and offered him a small smile.

Hermione Granger was supposed to be this inviolable, clever and powerful character out of the newspaper, the brains behind the famous Trio, but in reality, Tom understood, she was just this: a person, with her imperfections and weaknesses. Extraordinary, maybe, given her accomplishments, but not flawless.

Utterly human.

"Tell me about the experiment," Tom asked at last, crossing his arms on the table while the dishes shot up and rushed back to the kitchens. "The Wolfsbane Potion."

A spark of excitement entered Hermione's eyes and her small smile turned into a grin.

* * *

They talked- and talked and some more.

Hermione Granger was a curiously odd creature and Tom couldn't help but feel captivated by the way she talked, about her experiments or her life or anything else, by the way her wild curls stood as if electrified anytime she felt exhilarated or angry about something- by the way she laughed at his jokes, the same jokes his peers either didn't understand or responded to with a forced chuckle.

He was starting to like Hermione.

He told her so.

He didn't fake a charming smile when he did, that night, in front of her flat's door, and he didn't lie, because there was nothing he could gain from lying, nothing he needed to obtain with deceit. All he wanted was her friendship, genuine and uncontaminated by his- his questionable ways. Those were to remain a secret from her.

"Lunch tomorrow?" Tom asked, an arm propped against the wall and his head bent to stare down at Hermione, who was now leaning against the door and craning her neck to properly see his face.

"I'm sorry, I'm at Hogwarts tomorrow," Hermione said apologetically. "My friend, the Potions Master, invited me and Remus to his lab for the experiment."

Tom assumed that this friend of hers was Severus Snape, the Potions teacher. Hermione seemed to have many friends among the professors at Hogwarts.

"Dinner?" he tried again, slightly dipping his head and shading Hermione's face from the light of the lamp that lit the hall. Now in shadow, her eyes looked like molten chocolate, golden specks scattered around her pupils like glimmering stars.

Hermione swallowed, not loudly, but Tom caught the bobbing of her throat, and a familiar part of himself enjoyed the sight, the proof of what his proximity could do to people, could do to Hermione Granger- but she wasn't the only one affected.

Tom's stomach clenched when Hermione unconsciously wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.

"Dinner sounds good," she nodded, her lips stretching into a smile, a little dimple forming in her left cheek.

"Good," Tom said, bringing his hand to her cheek, his index finger finding that tiny dimple- it was going to be his newest obsession, this small, perfect flaw, he just knew.

"Good," Hermione repeated.

Her breath hitched when Tom's lips met her cheek for a quick peck.

He echoed, "Good," and within the next blink of Hermione's eyes, he disappeared.

Neither cared they forgot to bid each other goodnight.

.

* * *

.

July 23rd, 2004

The bookshop was empty but about to be incredibly busy within the next hour, once everyone was done with lunch and went back to walking down the streets of Diagon Alley, enjoying a healthy afternoon of shopping.

The sun was shining in the sky, beating hot on London, when Tom stepped into the shop. Luckily no sound of a bell ringing broke the comfortable silence, interrupted only by the chirping of birds outside, for the door was already wide open, blocked with a doorstop to let air in.

Remus gave him a knowing grin from behind the counter, jutting his chin towards the other side of the room, and Tom grinned back, taking immediately off down the aisles, his eyes searching.

He spotted Hermione right away. It was hard not to see her.

Soundlessly, he neared the wooden ladder she was standing on, and planted himself right behind her, his hands braced on an empty step. He smirked at the red pleated skirt she was wearing.

"You know-" Tom began, his voice low and husky.

Hermione startled and, one leg comically poised on the step and the other dangling about in the air, she almost lost balance, but Tom kept a firm hold of the ladder. Panting, the girl hugged a shelf for dear life and glared down. Tom merely went on, "Anyone who passes here can easily look up your skirt and..."

Hermione's glare intensified, her eyes daring him- Tom took  _the_  glance, making quick work of it, so quick Hermione didn't have the time to let out an indignant squeaky sound.

"And see that the pretty shopkeeper is wearing white lace knickers."

"Tom!" Hermione hissed, reaching down to pinch his arm, hard. His smirk only widened. "You- you- you-  _prick_!"

"With a universe of vulgarities directed to the male species and given your versatility in the field of eloquence, I thought you could come up with something better than that."

Huffing, Hermione carefully descended the few steps, "Because you're Tom Riddle and you deserve a good insult?"

"Your words, not mine-"

"If you need an insults' directory, Hermione, do let me know," a voice intercepted from the front of the shop. "James and Sirius wrote one back in sixth year! I'm sure they'd be happy to share."

"Thanks for letting me know, Moony," Hermione snorted, making her way towards where her colleague was still standing behind the counter, Tom following just behind. "But I think I've found the word I was looking for."

"Oh?" Remus and Tom made in unison. Depositing a pile of books, Hermione grinned up at the werewolf and then looked over her shoulder at Tom, mouthing the word, a word so atrociously insulting that Tom took a step back and a mask of affront crossed his face.

"That's cruel- and untrue!" he spat, his eyes boring in the back of her skull as Hermione walked past him and went back to tending to the books. "Take it back, Granger, or else-"

"Or else what?" she called from somewhere far down an aisle. But Tom didn't answer, a picture of what that 'else' could be making an appearance at the front of his mind, and a smirk slid on his lips. Remus gave him an amused look.

"You know, we were talking about you at Hogwarts, the other day," the man said conversationally, leaning over the counter, "with Severus. He says you were a brilliant student. I'm sorry for not having had the pleasure of teaching Slytherins that year, I heard that you and a few of your Housemates graduated from Hogwarts with stellar marks."

Tom gave a modest nod, "And I heard you were one of the finest professors Hogwarts has ever seen. Hermione always talks about your DADA lessons with praise."

"Hermione is too kind," Remus smiled, his eyes searching the bookshop as if he could see the girl behind the bookcases. They certainly could hear the muffled sounds of books being tossed on other books. "Well, it was a joy teaching her. And Harry. And all their year. Very curious students, so hungry for knowledge."

Tom slightly inclined his head, studying the former teacher reminiscing about his best lessons, something about boggarts and grindylows, a sparkle of happiness glowing in his eyes. The scars seemed to fade as his face lit up.

"Why did you quit?" Tom found himself asking, tact forgotten. The question just rolled off his tongue. Remus merely shrugged, his smile not faltering.

"You'll find that many parents don't like the idea of their children being taught by a werewolf," he sighed, his eyes dropping to the Muggle pen he was twirling between his hands. "I resigned, even when Albus- Professor Dumbledore wanted me to stay. No warning was sent by parents or the Ministry, not formally at least, but by the end of the year the whole school knew what I was and I heard them- the whispers. I felt the fear. So I let it go, the teacher position."

"How?" Tom asked, and Remus understood for now his expression really morphed into something darker, something forgotten in the daylight.

"School rivalries survive even among teachers, especially between Slytherins and Gryffindors."

And with this last revelation, Tom knew that whatever had happened between Remus Lupin and Severus Snape not many years ago hadn't been forgiven yet. Tom made a mental note to ask Hermione later.

"But enough about me," Remus shook his head, the corners of his lips tilted upwards again, "I know so little about you."

Tom stilled and then forced himself to relax. His voice came out smooth and pleasant, "There's nothing much to say about me. I work at Borgin and Burkes."

Werewolf. Remus was a werewolf. Tom remembered the tiny detail the moment he realised his posture wasn't that relaxed at all, his shoulders were stiffly pushed back, his chin held too high for someone who was amiably conversing with a friend, the exact opposite of what he was feeling inside – but if Remus noticed the change, his expression betrayed nothing. In fact, he only raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"But surely you don't want to spend the rest of your days down there? A brilliant young man like you could get any door opened, the Ministry too if Severus told me right."

Tom clenched his jaw, willing his heartbeat to calm the hell down.

His future career was a subject he couldn't discuss, sometimes not with his 'friends' and not even with himself. The subject was a raw wound in his skin, something that anyone else would heal in order to move elsewhere, but not him. No, no matter how much the wound kept itching and bleeding, Tom merely kept scratching.

"I'm still researching," Tom said. He saw Remus' eyes narrow but he didn't really look at them for fear that the werewolf could read through him. "I don't think the Ministry is the right option for me."

"Maybe Hermione can help you," the other man said slowly, his green eyes still searching Tom's face for something.

The thing was, Tom didn't want to be helped, he didn't need help, but he nodded his agreement all the same.

* * *

"How's it coming?"

Hermione looked up from the cauldron, her face red and sweating. Tom smirked secretly at that monster she called hair, now standing upright about her head against all laws of gravity.

Returning her eyes on the potion simmering under her nose, she mumbled something under her breath.

"What was that?"

One second passed, in which Tom had the time to fear for his safety and compare Hermione to a mad scientist, Emmett Brown perhaps, when she suddenly tore off her ridiculous goggles and threw them across the living room with a frustrated groan.

"I'm stuck!" she snapped, stomping her foot and making a sleepy Crookshanks startle on the sofa and hiss angrily at Tom. Tom glared at the ugly cat. "I'm stuck! And I don't understand why! I'm doing everything right, I just know!"

Whining, Hermione Vanished whatever was boiling in the cauldron with a flick of her wand. She dragged herself to the couch and sank down, rubbing her temples. "What am I doing wrong? I was sure that Valerian would work, but it doesn't reach the same colour as before. It works with half dose, but adding one more drop of oil messes it up completely- I don't know what I'm doing wrong!"

Tom eyed her sympathetically but didn't say anything. Of course he knew what Hermione was forgetting, but he had no intention of telling her and for many reasons... the most selfish being the fact that he liked spending time at her flat and watching her work through the evening and many times the whole night - while finishing the revised Wolfsbane Potion would deprive him of this small joy.

On the other hand, he was also taking intellectual pleasure from her failures, something he was trying very hard not to taunt her with– yes, he wasn't over that competitive side of himself yet  _and_  she was perfectly skilled at too many things for his liking.

But throwing his knowledge in Hermione's face would do her no good, not now not ever. Tom didn't think that she would appreciate his intrusion in her project, even if only with a simple advice. He had grown to understand she was a very proud woman in every sense and the lack of requests of help from her part was proof enough.

No, Tom guessed the girl was going to figure out the solution to her problem on her own.

Sighing, he walked to the couch and sat beside her.

"Turn around," he demanded. Hermione opened one eye to see him making a twirling motion with his finger to face the windows overlooking the street below. Grunting, Hermione complied and gave him her back.

Looking over her shoulder, she began, "What-  _Oh_."

'Oh' indeed. Hermione's head fell back and Tom had to straighten it up again with a chuckle while his other hand kept working her stiff shoulders, his fingers and palm rubbing the sore spots where all her stress had gathered in the last few weeks.

"What time is it?" Hermione asked softly, her gaze probably lost in the dark sky outside.

Tom silently Vanished her white t-shirt, leaving her only in her bra from the waist up, and let his hands travel down her back. "Two a.m."

"What!?" Hermione tried to move from the couch but Tom held her firmly by the arms. He resumed his work once she settled again. "Merlin, I'm so sorry… I lost track of time."

"Don't worry about it."

"It's really late though. Shouldn't you go home?"

"Do you want me to go home?"

Silence fell on the living room, interrupted only by the distant sound of cars outside.

Tom could imagine Hermione biting down her bottom lip, debating. They both knew what he was asking. And this was the first time he was asking.

In the past month they had snogged. A lot. And did a bit of exploring and touching, but never taking things below the waistline.

Now, though, Tom found himself dreading the moment he had to walk out of her front door. He craved her touch. That's why he  _might_  have stirred Hermione towards his desired answer by rubbing gently her side, over the white lace of her bra.

"Maybe I should go home," he said. He placed a light kiss between her shoulder blades. "You are tired."

Not giving her time to deny it, Tom gave her another kiss, this time at the nape of her neck, "Or maybe I should go home because you did insult me greatly today."

Tom felt Hermione shiver beneath his feather-light touch, the pad of his fingers grazing her back and sides, aiming for her stomach but not quite reaching it.

"There's no worse insult than what you said to me this afternoon, Hermione," he continued, pausing only to nip at her neck, "it was so offending I considered not speaking with you again."

"Yet here you are," she said, her voice somewhat strangled.

"Yet here I am." His hands finally reached her stomach. Hermione was trying very hard not to squirm to make those hands travel north or south, where she wanted them the most. "I find it impossibly difficult not talking with you, so I came to the conclusion that there are only two possible ways to overcome this unfortunate slip of tongue of yours-"

"I would like to remind you that there were no slip of tongue or sound emitted-"

"And since the word you said is the worst insult a man can receive, you can either apologise right now or... not say anything- that's if you'd rather face the consequences. Be punished accordingly."

Tom's fingers were now drawing idle patterns around her navel. Hermione fell back against his chest as a hand strayed slightly northwards, a touch away from the underside of her left breast.

"Or maybe I should insult you again considering what you've just suggested," she said, straining her head to look up at him.

Tom narrowed his eyes, his hand giving a sudden pinch to her lace-clad nipple.

Hermione gasped, her eyes darkening, but his fingers left her bosom as quickly as they'd come.

His voice was a seductive invitation. "I dare you."

And with that Hermione was flipped onto her back, her head hitting the armrest within the blink of an eye. Within another, Tom was kneeling between her parted legs, his hands seizing her wrists, stretching her arms, and now-

Now she was sprawled before him like a starfish, a very irritated, surprised and definitely fired-up starfish.

"Go ahead, Hermione, insult me again," Tom said, a triumphant smirk upon his face. "I dare you."

Oh, he was so going to enjoy this, two in the morning or no. His heart was beating faster and faster in anticipation.

Hermione remained silent, even as he released her wrists to bring his hands on her stomach once more.

"Lost your eloquence again?" Tom mocked her, his fingers inching towards her breasts. Her chest was rising and falling with quick, uneven breaths. "Crookshanks got your tongue?"

This time he fully cupped her breasts and kneaded her hardening nipples. He made no move to remove the garment covering them.

"Please," Hermione panted, her thighs pressing on his sides to move, to find friction against his abdomen. Of course Tom had other plans. He just couldn't give in her pleas, even when his own needs were struggling for attention.

At last, his hands were roaming freely on her skin, down her hips, her stomach, her thighs, and Tom relished every little sound she made and the feel of her flesh, his tongue tasting her but never going too close to her face, especially to those sinfully red and plump lips.

And just as his hand finally found the inside of her thigh, sliding over the rough denim, and moved to cup her sex, Hermione's eyes closing in incoming bliss, Tom wordlessly removed himself from the couch.

Hermione snapped her eyes open.

"Oh, but you're so tired," Tom said, now standing beside the couch and looking down at her. She looked positively miserable, though her face was gradually scrunching up in indignation. "It's half past two. You should rest."

"The hell I should rest!" Hermione protested loudly. She sat up, her incensed gaze not leaving Tom as he leaned over the coffee table to pick up his wand and wallet. "You can't leave me like- like- like this!"

"So this will teach you to not call me a pervert again!" he snapped over his shoulder while walking over the coat rack to retrieve his black jacket.

"You're an arse!" Hermione quickly Summoned a shirt from her wardrobe. The thing rushed from her bedroom in a matter of seconds.

"Really, again? What did I tell you about insulting me?" Tom asked, his voice sounding clearly annoyed. He had to fight to keep the smirk off of his face.

Hermione jumped on her feet, her hair standing with crackling energy. "Pervert, ass, prick, creep, dick-"

"Oh, no, you don't call me that!"

Tom crossed the living room in two longs strides and lunged for her, a growl ripping out of his throat at the sight of the red and gold Quidditch jersey held in her hands. He knew that the shirt had been a random and unintentional choice, but its presence still made a muscle in his jaw twitch.

He forgot about it altogether once he was upon her, once he finally took Hermione's face in his hands and slammed his lips down onto hers. Hermione gasped, more in outrage than delight, but Tom promptly took advantage of it by slipping his tongue in her mouth. Soon enough she was melting in their kiss and he was clawing his fingers in her hair, his other arm tightening around her waist.

They had never kissed like this before. This kiss was entirely different. It was ravenous, an exchange of tastes to starve and quench, it was breathless and pure instinct and chaos- and within the mayhem of emotions Tom was feeling, he knew that this kiss was just  _right_.

The overwhelming revelation was terrible and cruel, it made him want to do beautiful and unforgivable things, made him want to take Hermione's delicate neck between his hands and just squeeze, squeeze as hard as her influence in his life was starting to squeeze his guts and his heart and his soul, made him want to hold her in his arms and never let go, made him want to protect her from harm and kill whoever dared insult her or hurt her-

But, Tom realised, his face buried in the crook between her neck and shoulder, his eyes closed tight and his nose inhaling her scent, that would mean protecting her from himself too. Because, he knew, in the end he was bound to hurt her.

Hermione sighed in his ear, her hands combing his hair, and Tom raised his head to kiss her again.

 _Not now_ , he thought.  _Not tonight_.

Tonight Tom could give in the rightness of having Hermione in his arms and forget about the rest.

.

* * *

.

August 25 th , 2004

"Look who's back from the dead!"

Tom glared at the young man waving at him from a distant table, then merely rolled his eyes when the other grinned, raising a brimming mug of butter-beer in toast.

Tom crossed the pub, wrinkling his nose at the fumes flooding the dimly lit place in thick curtains, and had to skirt a couple of barely sober patrons staggering in his opposite direction from the loo; no kind of business could make him go in there tonight, he thought, approaching Feodor.

"Hey," he said, shrugging off his jacket and carefully draping it over the back of his chair.

"Here, I got you pale ale." Tom arched an eyebrow at the empty pilsner glass pushed under his nose and Feodor shrugged. "But then you were late so I drank it."

"Amusing- I gather things are not back to normal at home," he said as a way to start this conversation, looking pointedly at the empty glass of Firewhisky Feodor had surely chugged before his arrival.

"I gather Granger is busy again tonight," Feodor said instead, staring at him without blinking.

 _Touchè_. Tom wandlessly Summoned a bottle of Firewhisky that shot out from behind the counter right into his hand; the barmaid followed the flying bottle with her gaze and promptly parted her lips in delight upon finding two smug faces.

Slightly bending over the counter to make her squeezed breasts spill over the neckline of her tight shirt, she winked at them.

Tom smirked at Feodor, who chuckled, "Ol' knicker-drop magic still working, it seems."

"Hmm," Tom assented, loosening his collar – a room packed with smoking people paired with the heat of August was starting to get to his head before even the alcohol did. He poured himself another glass and downed it in one go.

Sharing the bottle, Tom and Feodor talked about their respective jobs and dissatisfying positions. While Feodor was a Curse-breaker at Gringotts, he still did work for goblins  _and_  under a Weasley who apparently didn't like him much. Mostly he was asked to keep the office in order while others did what he was paid for- it was a rare occurrence for him to experience those perks and doses of danger and adrenaline that came with the actual job, usually when no other Curse-breaker was available. After two years, his was still a desk job and no more.

And Tom, he damned his difficult customers, as usual, the other nodding along but not really interested, having already memorised names and faults in precedent rendezvous spent in that same pub.

The conversation drifted off when Tom realised his words were completely bouncing off his friend's head; annoyed, he frowned at Feodor and then stiffened upon catching the glazed look in his eyes- fixed on something past Tom's shoulder.

At first he thought about ignoring it, but after a minute Feodor's expression wasn't changing.

Unable to suppress his irritation, Tom cleared his throat. "This is when we used to flip a coin."

That apparently got his attention.

"And when the option was one, you won every single time," Feodor remembered with a slight scowl.

"True."

"Unfair."

"There was a beautiful blonde witch hurting every time you  _did_ win, though- just a little reminder." Tom eyed his empty glass speculatively, then added as a second thought, "And they were all blonde too. Oh, beloved denial."

The alcohol was quickly disappearing from the bottle.

"But- I wonder how she could even look at you, you know, knowing where you were sticking your dick."

As soon as Feodor banged his fist on the table and finally snapped "Shut up-", Tom sprang to his feet and leaned over the table to seize him by the front of his shirt.

"Then stop staring at that stupid slut," he spat in his face. Feodor's eyes widened, but Tom caught the flash of guilt; he clenched his grip around the fisted fabric. "You have a pregnant wife, for fuck's sake."

"I-I wasn't-"

Tom pinned him with a death glare and slowly let go of his hold. Resumed his seat and straightened his shirt, he poured the both of them a glass of amber liquid, keeping his gaze firm on what he was doing and ignoring the few curious glances shot their way- at least no one had been able to hear their conversation thanks to a smartly placed  _Muffliato_.

Feodor downed his drink and then inhaled sharply, his neck and cheeks tinged a deep shade of pink.

Tom waited a full minute to shake his head at his best friend.

"Salazar knows you don't deserve her," he said quietly.

Feodor gulped, guilt still flickering on his features, and stared down at the chipped wooden table.

"I've never cheated on her," he whispered hoarsely.

"And I'll kill you if you do," Tom stated seriously. "You know I will. In this wretched world, your wife's one of the few uncorrupted people left. Don't you dare ruin her, Nott."

_Don't you dare ruin her._

Tom felt an odd feeling boiling in his stomach. What a hypocrite he was.

.

From there, Tom made sure Feodor drank as much alcohol as he could keep in his stomach without, supposedly, feeling like shit the next morning, just enough so he wouldn't remember eyefucking the barmaid but still retain a certain degree of suffering. It was the sad kind of drunk Tom was after, the one in which happy thoughts were easily pushed back by self-pity and self-condemnation.

Indeed it took Feodor only another two shots of Firewhisky to turn into a moping mess. But it was just Tom's luck that his plan had backfired tremendously when they- he decided to leave the pub: the Floo, for one reason or another, had been disconnected, and Feodor was too pissed to Apparate.

That's why Tom was there, huffing and nose wrinkled, supporting a sobbing Feodor as they tried to walk down an empty street in Diagon Alley.

Head resting on Tom's shoulder, Feodor lifted it barely those inches to look at Tom.

"I love her," he declared.

"Yeah?" Tom raised his brow, doing his best to ignore the warm breath fanning his neck. "I hope you'll remember  _this_  tomorrow. You owe me big time, Nott- Salazar, I should have left you there."

Feodor didn't seem to be listening. "Do you love her?"

Tom contemplated the pavement; it looked clean and comfortable enough for an unconscious young man. "Your wife? Oh, yes."

"No- your Mud-"

"Say the word and I'll  _Crucio_  you into a coma," Tom snarled, not even sparing Feodor a glance. The pavement looked quite tempting now.

"Your witch-"

"I like her."

"She cheatin' on you with the weasel?"

"What?" Tom didn't stop in his tracks nor did he sound as alarmed as the bells furiously ringing in his head. Feodor was being delusional.

"She won't spend all evenings with you- you're always drinking with me, three times this week."

Tom exhaled, feeling a weight lifting off his chest.

"She's busy," he said slowly and clearly for the other to understand, not that he would remember anyway. "She's still working on that damn potion- at Hogwarts."

It was true, though, that he had been left alone a lot these days. And nights. He had even waited for Hermione in her apartment quite often last week, occupying his time by moving around her furniture, cataloguing her documents, rearranging her bookshelves while indulging in forgotten spirits poured in her favourite ridiculous mugs - until he finally gave up and sat down with a book randomly picked from her endless collection.

But every time the woman had returned too exhausted to keep him company beyond a quick dinner and discouraged answers to his questions regarding the day and her experiments.

Yes, he didn't like seeing her struggling with that potion and knackered to the point of passing out on the couch in the middle of a half-hearted snogging session, but he was also growing weary of their situation.

"She still could be cheatin'," Feodor hiccuped. "With Snape."

Tom would have abandoned him right then and there on the pavement with no regrets if Feodor hadn't chosen that moment to throw up on their feet.

.

.

September 1st, 2004

"It always feels weird, doesn't it?"

"What does?"

"Not boarding the train. Every year today feels... weird."

Tom looked up from the book open in his lap and found Hermione glancing at the clock of the bookshop. It was ten in the morning. He frowned in confusion, "Why? What day is it?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer but one glance at him made her stop and purse her lips. She studied Tom's face for a moment.

"You've lost track of time again, haven't you?" she eventually asked, but it sounded more like a statement. Tom didn't answer.

When Hermione didn't say anything else, Tom resumed his reading, aware of her eyes still on him. He didn't like the weight of that gaze. Only when he heard the sound of heels fading into the back of the shop did he release a heavy sigh.

"The Hogwarts Express is going to leave King's Cross in less than an hour."

Tom was almost startled when Remus appeared beside him.

"Sorry," the older man said with an apologetic small smile. "Werewolf's hearing. Couldn't help but catch your 'conversation'."

Nodding, Tom closed the book and sent it back flying towards a shelf.

"You know," Remus started, sitting on a stool, "Hermione has always been particularly fond of Hogwarts. She doesn't talk about it, but I know that she misses it terribly. Especially today. Being raised by Muggles may have been the reason. You see, growing up without magic and then, at eleven years old, discovering an entirely new world of spells and creatures..."

Yes, Tom knew. He knew and understood because he had felt it too, that surprise, the joy of being part of a world he had dreamed of as a child- he understood what Hermione felt today. He had just forgotten about it entirely.

Remus was studying him intently, his narrowed eyes flecked with more gold and amber than usual.

As soon as the man's lips parted, Tom knew that what he was going to say had nothing to do with Hermione.

"Tom, I'm a werewolf," he said, scooting his stool closer to Tom's. "The full moon was only three days ago and yet you look worse than me."

Tom tried to speak up at this but Remus cut him off with a look.

Now his voice was lower but stern, almost accusing. "Your skin is paler, you have dark circles under your eyes and they have deepened in the last few days. Even your hair is straighter."

Remus paused an instant. Both his eyes and his voice grew colder.

"Now, these may have passed as symptoms of insomnia for everyone else, but I know better. I can feel it in your magic, your aura."

No, Tom had been wrong. This conversation had everything to do with Hermione.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Remus," Tom denied. Remus shot him a glare.

"We both bloody well know what I'm talking about. You are testing dark magic, actually consuming it, and whatever you're doing is consuming  _you_. It's claiming a lot from you and the payment will only increase with time if you don't stop- whatever it is you are doing." The man's voice grew even icier. He leaned forward until between the two of them were barely a few breaths of space. "I don't care about what you are doing."

"I-"

"As long as it doesn't involve Hermione." His voice was calm, the threat clear in his amber eyes. "She's like a daughter to me and if I find out that you've hurt her, physically or emotionally... Moony will be very, very displeased."

Tom's hands were clenched in tight fists, but inside his guts were twisting.

Remus knew. He knew about the experiments. He hadn't mentioned it, but Tom bet he knew about his soul as well. Breaking, piece by piece.

Tom forced himself to stare back at Remus, unruffled and composed. "Hermione is safe with me."

Remus cocked an eyebrow and slowly shook his head. "I doubt it. But she feels for you, so I won't say anything else. This is my only warning."

* * *

Two hours later, Hermione and Tom were having lunch in Muggle London, in a small but cosy Italian Restaurant. The rest of the morning had been uneventful and Remus had returned to smile at Tom, no trace of the wolf in his eyes, no hint at the threat the man had made. Tom wasn't scared, but the conversation was still replaying in his head, again and again, the feeling of his withheld truths being bared making him uncomfortable.

He had hoped for more time, more time for- he didn't know what for. He couldn't hide any longer. He had plans, plans that involved personal researches and- and more experiments. He couldn't avoid it.

Tom was working with dark magic, the only way to heighten his powers.

And Hermione...

Tom cared for her, at levels beyond his imagination and comprehension, but she was distracting him.

"You're awfully quiet today."

Tom glanced up from his empty plate, barely noticing that he was still holding his fork mid-air, and found Hermione smiling kindly at him.

"You've been miles away, I didn't want to interrupt your thoughts."

"That's very considerate of you," Tom commented, a smirk playing on his lips.

"What were you thinking about?" she asked, turning her head only a moment to nod for a waiter to bring their bill. The young man walked over their table right away, all smiles and insipid politeness, and Tom didn't miss the way he grinned at Hermione.

"Thank you," Hermione said, smiling up at the man at maths done.

"Yes, thank you," Tom gritted out in dismissal. The guy eyed him uneasily before making a quick exit.

Hermione angled her head, annoyed. "What was that for?"

Tom shrugged and let his eyes roam about the restaurant to avoid coming up with an answer.

"Tom, is-" Hermione bit her lip. "Is something wrong?"

Blinking yet again undesired thoughts away, Tom's gaze went back to Hermione, who was still biting her lip, concern etched into her face.

"Sorry, I'm just tired," he reassured her, stretching his arm over the table to grasp her hand. Her palm felt so warm-

"Your hand is so cold," Hermione gasped.

"My hands are always cold."

"No, they aren't. They are usually warmer than mine."

"Whatever you say."

"Tom!"

"What?"

"Look at me."

Tom had unconsciously lowered his gaze again and was now staring at a darker spot of the wooden table. He didn't dare take his eye off of it.

"I'll be away for two weeks, Hermione." He managed to say it steadily, if not a bit too quietly.

"Are you going to retrieve something for Mr Burke?" she asked, inclining her head to better see his expression. He didn't let her, remaining still, his eyes fixed on that black spot on the uneven surface of the table.

"I'm going to retrieve an ancient artefact, a jewel of sorts. In Europe." It wasn't a lie. It was actually the truth. As for Mr Burke, the man only knew that Tom was taking a few days off, a period of time that he hadn't clarified. Luckily Burke was too busy to care and the most important orders were never assigned to Tom anyway.

"But you'll be here by the 19th, right?"

This time Tom raised his head. Hermione was smiling.

"Harry, Remus and my parents are organising a surprise party for my birthday," she laughed, shaking her head, the light of the sun coming through the windows catching in her dark curls and making them glow golden. "I'm not supposed to know, but, well, I overheard Harry and Ginny talking about it, so- I hope you'll be free for the 19th because I'm sure Remus will inform you about it."

Nodding, Tom squeezed Hermione's warm hand and entwined their fingers. "I'll be there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry! So sorry for the long wait! But finally, the second part of the story is here. Now, just one part to go. It's half written but I need to correct and review it before sharing it with the world. I won't lie, it will be... less than ideal. A bit dark, not too much, but, hopefully something you'll enjoy reading. I'm also thinking about adding an epilogue, I'm not sure about it yet though.
> 
> And, hey, I'm giving myself a high-five. I set a limit of 5000-6000 words for part and I'm actually respecting it! For those of you who follow my other fanfiction, Dark Games, I'm sure you know that I suck at chapter lengths. No wonder that that story has only 14 chapters if one is 12000 words long. Ha, well!
> 
> I also thank everyone for the reviews left on the first part of the story, I'm so happy you've enjoyed it and I'm definitely flattered you've asked for more. Please, let me know what you think of this second part and what you expect of the third!


	3. Part 3

 

September 18th, 2004

The day was dying when the wind rose and started to rage in the forest. Cold air rushed through the bare trees, lamenting in the ears of the creatures hiding in their lairs, whispering of old magic. Carrying songs of dark folk tales and children's cries.

In the exact moment a flock of black birds took off the branches and flew away, a sudden  _crack_  interrupted the eerie silence and a lone figure appeared in the distance.

Shrouded by the thickening fog, a man was steadily walking across the clearing, silently trampling on the leaves scattered on the damp grass, his dark robes billowing behind him-

"Like shadows," he whispered.

He, the boy, was currently crouched behind a thornbush, his fingers hovering over bright red berries. They were exquisite, the berries, sweeter than honey, with a slightly bitter aftertaste that just begged his hands to take more. Not to eat now, but to fill his pockets for later. Maybe he could give them to his mother and ask her to make a cake. Yes, showing her the berries would certainly make her happy and maybe, if he was lucky enough, forget that he had come home after dark and should be in for a bad scolding. Again.

But now, berries forgotten, the boy was still, his head rolled back to see over the bush and its thorns, where the man was walking towards a tree.

Around them, the air was as tense as a tightly pulled thread. An uncomfortable feeling of anticipation roiled in the boy's stomach.

Aside from his erratic heartbeat, not a sound could be heard because, the moment the strange man seemed to lift his head to the sky, the wind simply disappeared. Or stilled.

It was time to head home.

The boy tried to stand, but movement out of the corner of his eyes caught his attention again.

The man was in the middle of the clearing, standing not many feet away from a tree. But not a mere tree.

This, the boy knew, was the most ancient tree of the forest, majestic and white in stark contrast to the wild plants surrounding it. And, as if its colour wasn't peculiar enough, a small cavity was high in the trunk, just where the wood sharply branched out.

No one dared walk too close to the tree, though, or worse, touch it. Legends said the whole place was sacred, or cursed, and that, if one listened hard, cries and whispers could be heard coming from the tree hollow, memories of a far and forgotten past. And on a particular night of the year, in winter, it was said that two ghosts could be seen under the drooping branches, even.

His grandmother often told the boy this story, one that she had heard from her own grandmother, passed to her through generations; a story about a woman murdered under the ancient tree by a man who loved her dearly, so much he turned to Death once his beloved had rejected his affection. The man first stabbed the woman and then plunged the knife into his own heart.

On the same night every year, his grandmother had told him, the two souls returned to the tree, bound to the place where they died, for eternity. The man, it was said, would be heard crying his remorse and seen kneeling at the lady's feet.

"I saw them when I was a child," the boy's grandmother had often sworn, a twinkle in her distant eyes. "I remember as if it were yesterday. He was at the foot of the tree, begging and calling her name. She was beautiful, the Grey Lady. But she looked so, so sad... She was staring at the tree hollow, looking so sad..."

_Helena Helena, where are you?_

Shivers ran down the boy's spine as the strange man drew closer to the ancient tree, his granny's voice in the back of his mind speaking, "Helena, he called her."

_Come out Come out, my love._

The boy trembled and closed his eyes. It wasn't real.

_Helena Helena, my sweet little raven, what are you hiding in the dark forest?_

No, he wasn't hearing it.

_Something precious you are Occulting, my sweet little thief._

The boy's eyes fluttered open when another voice reached his ears.

The man was still there, now speaking and waving something in his hand, something like a twig, but the boy couldn't see very well nor he could make out the words the man was saying. He had the impression it was some kind of foreign language.

Then, after minutes of nothing, something happened.

A shift in the air could be felt.

The boy blinked, not quite believing his eyes. Surely, the old tree hadn't just slumped its branches!  _As if exhausted_ , he thought.

He was still debating whether what he had just seen was something out of his imagination or a very real event when the man retreated from the white trunk.

The stranger was holding something in his left hand. A dark box of sorts. Like a jewel box, similar to the one his mum kept hidden in the back of a chest's drawer in her bedroom. Only this one  _felt_  different.

_What is it, my darling Helena? A precious winged crown, my little deceiver?_

In his crouched position, the boy remained there for ages, oblivious to the numbness of his legs under his weight, his gaze lost in the darkening clearing.

The man was still there, contemplating the object in his hands.

Soon, the night would descend and-

"Iulian!"

Snapped out of his daze, the boy swung his head towards the voice of his mother.

"Iulian! Where are you?"

The boy made to rise and leave his hide-place, but he failed. His legs felt like jelly. No matter how hard he tried to make them work, they didn't.

His mother kept calling for him, her voice nearing; soon enough she was standing on the other side of the clearing, right in front of him, her small figure appearing in the middle of the gap between the tangled thorns.

His breath hitched when the man entered his line of sight too, a few feet away from his mother. His blood ran ice cold when she turned to the dark-haired man. He felt his throat close up.

And yet he didn't move.

Even when the man prowled closer to his mother and that feeling of dread wanted, pleaded the boy to run to her and follow her home, to the warmth of their kitchen and the magic tricks of his dad, he didn't move... because his body betrayed him. Because, beyond any logical reason, he was scared.

"Excuse me, sir, have you seen my boy, he's-"

" _I don't understand you, woman_."

Run.

Voices in the boy's head screamed for him to run, to go tell his mum he was alright, he was here, he was ready to go home-

But he didn't. He stayed there. Hidden.

" _I-I'm looking for my son_ ," his mother stuttered in another language. In English. " _Have you seen him?_ "

" _No_."

The boy didn't even realise that his lower limbs were moving again, making him sit on the cold soil, arms hugging his knees tightly to his chest. His cheeks felt wet against the cold but still air. Something salty touched a corner of his lips and soon slipped in his mouth. Tears.

He silently cried as the man reached out a hand and placed it on his mother's cheek. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear and then stepped back from her.

The boy was now rocking back and forth, his wide eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before him, fixed on his mother's back, on the auburn hair cascading past her shoulders.

His lips quivered in the struggle to contain the sobs. His hands shook, his fingers digging in the rough fabric of his trousers-

He stayed there, behind the thornbushes, tears streaming down his dirty and sticky face, hating himself and feeling utterly scared as the man pointed the weird straight stick at his mother's chest.

" _Avada Kedavra._ "

It was pretty, the green light, like fireworks on New Year's Eve.

But the following dead silence pressed on him with the sheer force of one terrible knowledge.

The sight of his mother sprawled on the ground was cruel. But he didn't move.

He didn't move when the man left the clearing and walked into the distance.

He didn't move when he thought he heard a  _crack_  and the man disappeared into the night.

Iulian didn't move even when the wind resumed its raging and the flock of black birds came back.

.

* * *

.

October 2nd, 2004

"Hermione, please-"

"Not now, Tom, go away."

"Let me in, I can explain-"

"No-"

"Please, I didn't-"

"I DON'T CARE-"

"For Salazar's sake, Granger, let me in before your neighbours call the police!"

"And good riddance!"

Hermione shot him a glare, a poisonous thing from her once sweet chocolate eyes, when the door she was roughly closing slammed into Tom's foot. With a growl, seeing no other option, she seized the handle and fully reopened the door, sending a rush of air inside the flat, strands of her hair blown about her face in the process.

Clenching her jaw, Hermione shifted on her legs and folded her arms across her chest, staring up at him. Tom's eyes quickly swept the landing to make sure the neighbours' doors were closed and no one was climbing the stairs.

"Two weeks, Tom," Hermione hissed, the corners of her lips curling in disdain. "You said you would be away two weeks-"

"I know, I'm sorry," Tom tried to plead with her, but she was having none of it.

"We waited for you for hours," Hermione went on, her cheeks growing warm, "we waited for you until midnight to eat the cake. Harry even sent you a Patronus- But do you know what really hurt?"

Silver lined her eyes, eyes that she closed now, taking in a lungful of air before continuing, "That my parents wanted to meet you. The whole party was for you. They were so excited about it. My mother worked extra hard- not for me. She wanted to impress  _you_. Because she wanted a special occasion to see the man who was making me- happy... You broke her heart."

Hermione swallowed and Tom took a step back at the emotion he was reading in her red, tearful eyes. In that moment he knew he had involuntarily broken her own heart.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. He was at a loss for words when his apology tasted like ash in his mouth.

Hermione shook her head. "I didn't really care about my birthday. I just wanted you to be there so I could share just one evening- just one, with the people I love the most-"

A single tear escaped her eye and ran across her cheek, disappearing in the turtleneck of her black sweater.

Tom attempted to close their distance again, "I was delayed-"

"And I was worried beyond reason!" Hermione shouted, hitting him in the chest with her hands, pushing him away. She gave him two other shoves and Tom did nothing to stop her. He just took it all in, finding himself leaning against the door opposite her flat- because he deserved it. For far too many reasons, he knew he deserved this little pain and more. The fact that his conscience was still there, buried deep within him, was a wonder after everything he had done.

"I was so worried," Hermione was saying, her hands fisted in his robes. "I thought the worst when you didn't return, but then Theodore's brother reassured me you were fine, that you were receiving my letters, and I couldn't believe it! I couldn't believe you wouldn't even have the decency to tell me you weren't coming back-"

"I'm back," Tom blurted, encircling her small fists with his fingers, but Hermione immediately pushed herself off of him. Her eyes were narrowed to slits.

"One  _month_! You've been away for one fucking month, Tom," she accused him and Tom couldn't say anything in return.

It was true.

But Hermione hadn't even asked him anything about his journey, not a question after his health.

 _You deserve it_ , Tom reminded himself.

Grunting softly, Tom straightened himself and went to stand in front of her door, where she was now glaring at him from the entrance, waiting for him to say something.

"Let me explain?" he asked. He tried to communicate through his eyes how badly he wanted to make things right and perhaps she understood for her shoulders slumped and her face lost a bit of colour.

"Not now," she said. "Another day."

It wasn't a no. Because Tom knew that she was good. And he was going to take advantage of her goodness, was going to suck it from her being until the very last drop every time he needed it, every time he did something bad. She was going to be his salvation in this sense, she was the light he would return to every time he strayed.

Because he couldn't help it, the walking on dark paths.

Tom looked at Hermione, her eyes dry and accusing- and a dim light of betrayal flickering against her pupils.

_I'm so selfish._

"Tell me we are okay," he whispered, slightly dipping his head.

"I know you've been messing with dark magic, Tom. You reek of it," Hermione said instead. Her voice sounded so tired and disappointed and- resigned.

She knew.

 _No no no_ , Tom chanted frantically in his head, his wide eyes begging her.  _Don't give up on me, don't give up on me, don't-_

"Tell me we are okay," he repeated, his own voice cracking. "Hermione..."

But Hermione turned her head to the side, not meeting his gaze.

"I'll send an owl when I'm ready," she murmured before closing the door without a final glance at him.

.

* * *

.

October 9th, 2004

Tom had to wait a whole week to see an unfamiliar grey owl fly in his bedroom through the window he left open every day. Every day and every night in the hope Hermione would contact him.

At last, here it was, the letter he was waiting for- but it was just a note. Brief and cool.

Standing in front of the window, the cold air of the night slamming against the warm bubble he had Conjured the evening before, Tom raised his wand to Summon a treat for the owl, but with a loud flap of wings, the creature left, clearly not wanting to linger there a moment more.

Tom sighed, his eyes returning on Hermione's note. She was asking him to meet at his flat in the morning. She didn't specify the hour, but Tom wasn't as naïve as to think that Hermione was going to give him the courtesy of showing up at a decent one; no, if she was in a bad mood, she could arrive at dawn, even, or earlier. Tom's fears were entirely justified considering that Hermione was sending him notes at four am - and the distance between their flats was practically non-existent from an owl's perspective.

"Damn it, woman."

With another heavy sigh, Tom walked to his small bathroom to get ready for the day.

* * *

It was barely eight in the morning when a knock startled Tom from his nap. He had sat on the couch with the intent of thinking over what he would say to Hermione, but the lack of sleep had caught up with him and now here he was, hastily straightening the cushions and raking his fingers through his hair.

Tom opened the door just as the second knock arrived. She was there, standing a few inches from him, her coat draped over the crook of her arm, her hair neatly arranged in a simple plait.

"Hermione," he breathed in greeting, stepping to the side to let her walk in.

He promptly took her coat and umbrella and sent them to the coat rack with a flick of his wrist. He was never going to admit it, not to himself, that he had hoped the small demonstration of wandless magic would leave an impression, but Hermione's face remained stoic, her eyes looking anywhere but at him.

Hermione crossed his small but clean living room to stand before the couch, making no move to sit down. She twisted around and, finally, her chocolate orbs met his.

"You look awful," she commented, raising her chin ever so slightly.

Several seconds ticked by, the time in which Tom felt irritation surge in his chest. How dare she ask him to meet only to throw personal insults his way?

Crossing his arms over his chest, he sneered, "You're one to talk. Haven't checked the dark circles under your eyes this morning, have you?"

"And whose fault would that be?"

"Oh, but I didn't want you to lose sleep over me, darling. I asked you to let me explain right away, remember?"

"Touché." Hermione sat down on the couch and shrugged, waving her hands with her palms upturned, expectantly, as if to say,  _Please, go on._

Gritting his teeth, Tom took a seat in the sagging sofa opposite the couch, crossing one leg over the other. He childishly shifted his legs so his ankle rested on his knee as to not mirror Hermione's stiff and proper posture. The new casual position actually gave him a sense of advantage, he found.

Relaxing further, Tom began to talk.

"Thank you for coming here. I'm glad you accepted to... have this conversation."

Hermione merely nodded.

"Tea?"

She shook her head.

"Alright." He sighed inwardly. "As I told you the other day, I was delayed while tracking a rare object in Romania for Burke-"

"I just have one request, Tom," Hermione interrupted him, her voice hard. "I accept to have this conversation on the condition that you won't lie to me. I want you to be honest."

Tom blinked, cocking his head, "I told you, I was working-"

"No, you weren't," she cut him short again. Her eyes were fixed in his, burning right through his soul. "You weren't working and you weren't in Romania."

Tom didn't speak for several seconds, thinking over what to say. It seemed that Hermione knew more than she let on. Lying would do him no good but prove her right.

From remote recesses of his brain, a voice spoke, familiar and deep, and Tom was menacingly reminded that he was one wrong step from losing. Not a game, but- from losing her.

Still, he couldn't be honest, couldn't-

"It's about your experiments, isn't it?" Hermione asked, depriving him of the opportunity to avoid the inevitable. "Remus told me. I- I feel so stupid, you know? We've been dating for months and I never noticed how deep you're in this shit. You had to go to Europe and do whatever stupid thing you've done and just  _reek_  of it to make me believe Remus."

Hermione choked out a bitter laugh. "I didn't believe him at first. He told me on my birthday. That's why I tried to contact you so many times. Because I... I thought the worst. Anything could have happened to you with normal magic involved, but with dark magic- I just lost it. "

Tom felt his insides clench and warmth rise in his cheeks in shame.

"And I was right, it seems. What you did- it hurt you."

"I'm fine," Tom mumbled, rubbing his eyes tiredly, just so he could not watch her while he lied yet again.

Hermione gave him a reproaching look. "I'm not a fool, Tom. Your skin is sickly pale, your hair is almost straight, and your eyes..."

Tom raised those eyes, questioningly, and Hermione's throat bobbed as she swallowed... what? Was that fear?

His cheeks immediately lost colour at the sight of Hermione's reaction, at what she was seeing and making her look so scared. He knew, he bloody well knew he was changing, but her wide eyes fixed on his own... She had never looked so scared. Not by him.

Guilt and unease darted up his throat, blocking whatever word he was about to say. So he kept silent, bracing himself for what was to come, the hatred, the fear, the disgust.

Her question was a quivering sough past her lips. "What have you done?"

The breath Tom let out was a shattered manifestation of what he was feeling inside, the turmoil of emotions he didn't want to reveal, or admit, and yet he was baring it all for her to see, to witness and use against him. He could easily take his wand, offer it to her, and give her the clear to hurt him and make him suffer while at it, and it would cost him less, less than what telling the truth would cost. Because, that, that honesty Hermione was asking for wasn't going to break her heart only, but - Tom realised right now, in a moment of brutal clarity - his as well. His pathetic, unmerciful heart.

"You don't want to know, Hermione," Tom whispered, staring at his knees.

"I do." Her tone turned demanding. "What kind of magic are you experimenting with? What kind of spells? What for?"

"Dark spells. Potions. Ancient Runes. You name it."

"Why?"

Tom didn't answer.

Hermione deflated her lungs with a sigh. "There's no need for me to remind you how dangerous meddling with dark magic is. Everything... everything is a bargain with that kind of magic. I researched and studied it a bit, out of curiosity, when I was out of Hogwarts, but then I left it there as soon as I understood what it asked as payment. Pieces of you for power."

A pregnant pause.

Then, "Because this is about it, right, Tom? Power."

Tom bit the inside of his cheek.

"You're willing to become a shadow of the man you are now to be more powerful." It wasn't a question. "What's power compared to living a life to its fullness?"

"Power can save you from death."

Tom wasn't looking at her, his gaze was lowered to his knees, occasionally moving to the armrests and the floor, but he felt Hermione's whole demeanour shift anyway; he noticed it from her barely restrained intake of breath. The moment realisation hit her.

"My magic," she said hesitantly, "pure and uncontaminated, and my heart can save me from death. Power, on the other hand, that  _kind_  of power, corrupts the soul. It strengthens your skills, but it weakens you as a human being.

"Tom... Death isn't an enemy to defeat. Yes, the idea of dying might scare me, but the thought of my soul abused and hostage of some ancient ritual scares me more. At least, when the time comes, I will have the knowledge that I did everything I could to be happy and to render life better for those in need- to change the world with what power I have. Because trying to reach goals with whatever means necessary is good - you're a Slytherin, you know that - but defiling yourself on the way is a total waste."

Tom found the courage to look up. He watched Hermione intently as she shook her head, sadness brimming in her eyes, alongside a spark of resolution.

"I won't permit you to do that. I won't stand by and see you throw yourself away."

"It's too late, Hermione," he said, his voice scratchy against his throat.

He had never felt so vulnerable in his life, not even when a piece of his soul had been plucked from him – he had felt only pain then.

"Not if you stop, Tom. I'll help you, I swear. Just stop this."

"It's too  _late_ , Hermione."

Telling her the truth was the last thing Tom wanted, yet he was trying to let her know how far he had gone without saying where.

"What..." Her voice changed into a fearful murmur again. She repeated her earlier question, "What have you done?"

Tom wouldn't look at her, he wouldn't. He couldn't tell her, he couldn't lose her-

"Tom-"

"STOP IT!" He stood on his feet in a flash, but Hermione was already in front of him, her hair wild, her wand pointed at his chest.

" _LEGILIMENS!_ "

He put no resistance, he was too shocked for that, he had never imagined Hermione would invade his mind, his privacy-

_Blood, blood coating the expensive carpets, blood splattered on the walls, his sobs could do nothing, couldn't undo it, what he had done-_

" _Freak!" Children laughing at him, at the bruises on his back, he hugged his knees closer to his chest-_

_Wind roaring in his ears, his eyes searching the trees in the Albanian forest-_

_A red-haired woman in front of him, a green light erupting from his wand, he could feel the sneer tugging at his lips-_

A loud smack was the first sound he heard when he came back and his head turned with the force of a blow. He didn't have the time to blink that another slap turned his head to the other side and left a sharp sting on his cheek. He readied himself for another rush of pain. When it didn't come, Tom slowly blinked again, his spotted sight clearing and focusing on Hermione.

Her arms were hanging limply by her side, fingers twitching. Her wide chocolate eyes were staring up at him, wet, spilling fat tears across her red cheeks. Her trembling lips parted and closed several times, unable to speak.

Stifling a whimper, Hermione backed away from him, stepping closer to the door.

"Hermione."

Tom wanted to stop her, snatch her wrists, shove her onto the couch and force her to listen as he explained- but he couldn't.

He stayed there, standing, waiting.

"No." Hermione shook her head, disbelief shadowing her face, but just for an instant. Anger replaced it right after. "I trusted you... you-  _No_ \- H-How could you?"

She gave him one last glance before storming out of his flat, the door slamming shut behind her, bouncing against its hinges. But Tom still stayed there, rooted on the spot by a seemingly cruel spell.

A moment he was breathing sharply through his nose, the next the air was cut out of his lungs. It took him a while to understand that the source of his deprivation of oxygen was himself- because the intake of breath was clogged in his throat while irrational rage blazed in his chest. His hands were clenched in tight fists at his sides, resisting the impulse to draw his wand and break something-

He forced air down his lungs.

He was angry and he was hurt, but the pain was drowned out by the pounding of his heart, his miserable heart. Its drumming was loud, a strong pulse in his veins, burning, burning like his sore cheeks-

She had sworn. She had sworn she would help him. She had said she would help those in need- She had sworn-

Suddenly, Tom's shoulders dropped in defeat and his fury left his system at once.

Dark green flames sprouted from thin air and devoured everything in their wake.

But Tom remained there.

Even when the flames surrounded him, the heat clinging to his skin, Tom stayed there.

He stayed there, standing, waiting for his raging fire to be consumed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, don't hate me! I know I promised this would be a 3-parts story but when I went to develop the scenes I'd already sketched out, I realised I couldn't end it with this chapter and an epilogue, especially since this chapter was more than 9000 words long. So, yes, I had to split this third part in two. But then, when I went to check the other scenes, I also realised they would take much more pages than I'd planned.
> 
> In other words, this story is told in a total of 7 chapters. Please, don't hate me. I know you were probably waiting for this third part to read the promised ending.
> 
> I'm sorry. Throw tomatoes at the screen if you want, I deserve it.
> 
> Anyroad! The warning you read at the end of the first part still applies. The story grows darker from here.
> 
> Guys! I have few reviews but I'm overwhelmed by them. Your kind words truly moved me- and moved my arse to sit at the desk and write - and I'm so happy you actually share my excitement to read more of this story. There's nothing more heartening than knowing that readers enjoy what I write. Thank you so, so much!
> 
> Anyroad! The warning you read at the end of the first part still applies. The story grows darker from here.
> 
> Guys! I have few reviews but I'm overwhelmed by them. Your kind words truly moved me- and moved my arse to sit at the desk and write - and I'm so happy you actually share my excitement to read more of this story. There's nothing more heartening than knowing that readers enjoy what I write. Thank you so, so much!


	4. Part 4

 

October 9th, 2004

"Tom-"

"Don't ask, Feodor. Please."

Maybe it was because Tom Riddle rarely said the P word, or maybe it was because he looked utterly miserable in his charred and torn robes, but Feodor Nott didn't try to ask again. Tom was going to tell him soon enough... because Feodor was his only friend.

The two were sitting in the drawing room in Nott's Manor, a bottle of Firewhisky and two empty glasses placed on the coffee table between them- near an ancient looking box of cigars and an almost empty pack of cigarettes that Feodor had Summoned from his father's study just for the occasion. Tom had hoped for something a bit stronger, like that chemical stuff Muggles liked to inhale so much, because Salazar knew how badly he needed something, anything, to feel better and possibly forget, but it seemed that tonight alcohol and tobacco had to do.

"I'm sorry for intruding in your home like this," Tom mumbled, clawing his fingers through his dishevelled hair. Slouched in the armchair, his coat discarded on the armrest, a sleeve trapped under his arse, Tom was staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, occasionally taking a drag off his cigarette. The sky was dark and dull, not even the winking light of a star in a blanket of late night to soothe his soul.

"It's alright," Feodor reassured him, stretching on the couch. "There's no one at home except for us and the house-elves."

"Your wife?"

"No idea where she is."

"Nice." Tom flicked his hand and the bottle of alcohol flew right into his palm.

"You shouldn't drink more, Tom," Feodor said, lifting his head those few inches needed to shoot his friend a warning look that the other promptly brushed off. In fact, Tom brought the bottle to his lips and took a long swig to make a point. He regretted the decision almost immediately when the liquid hit his throat, burning like fire.

"Damn it! What kind of Firewhisky is this... Do ya have another?" Tom waggled the empty bottle at Feodor.

Feodor sighed. "I don't think it's a good idea, Tom. You were already... erm... not totally at the highest of your intellectual abilities or in control of your faculties when you arrived here."

"I wasn't drunk."

"You certainly are now."

"Feels like a d _éjà vu_ , only reversed-"

"Just don't throw up on the couch." Feodor sat up and eyed him in a way that made Tom avert his gaze. "You were out. Where did you manage to get so dirty?"

"Many places."

"Where?" Feodor had to ask. Because the next morning he was probably going to those places to deal with the witnesses with a little Memory spell- this Tom knew, even if the alcohol was starting to fog his brain.

"Hmm, I don't remember. Westminster-  _hic_ \- Oxford Street? Took a stroll at the park."

"Which park?"

Tom shrugged.

"And what... were you doing? Were you drinking something or-"

"Drinking a beer or two. Smoking.  _Crucioing_  the squirrels... and the beggars."

"Oh, fuck it," Feodor groaned.

Tom felt a stupid grin spread over his face at the frustration his friend was vocalising, knowing that it was all his fault. He felt strangely proud of it, the trouble he was causing.

Feodor stood abruptly and crossed the room in strides to tower over Tom, who just lifted his glassy eyes and gave him a questioning look. That made his host grow even more furious.

He planted his hands on his hips. "And have you done permanent damage to anyone?"

"Nah- Yes!" Tom straightened in the armchair only for his head to spin and make him fall back on the cushions. In an instant, all the bad things that had happened during the day came rushing back and hit him in the chest with a wave of regret. All traces of humour faded from his flushed cheeks.

Tom swept a hand over his face, "Yeah... A few people. Although-  _hic_ \- the curse wasn't very effective, my magic was... spent."

And how hard he had tried to make his victims suffer, how long he had stayed there, standing behind benches, his wand pointed at their backs, too much of a coward to look at them in the eye...

He saw those men at the front of his drunken mind, crumpled to the ground, moaning, gasping for breath at the feeble shocks they surely felt cursing through their veins. They didn't deserve that punishment, didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of his madness, but Tom had been too far gone that afternoon, too desperate, too weak. He had been discovered for the bad man he was and he had to prove that it was true, that if Hermione was leaving him it was because he really was evil.

 _I am_ , he realised, letting loose a loud hiccup. Even if she had left him, he still remained an ambitious evil fool.

Tom looked at his only friend, his eyes focusing and unfocusing. "They will be okay. But, my flat. It's gone. And Tess's cat died, I think, she was on the landing and the flames caught her when-  _hic_ \- I opened the door. And Hermione, I've dam-  _hic_ \- damaged her.  _Permanently_."

"Oh God," Feodor muttered, rubbing his eyes. Tom gave him a sympathetic little smile before shutting his eyes and collapsing further into the cushions.

"My heart too, Feodor," he slurred, slumber claiming him. "But- it's only temporary."

* * *

October 10th, 2004

When Tom's eyes cracked open several hours later to the echo of ominous whispers, no light was seeping in the room, as he had expected, but strange shadows danced on the floor and the ceiling; he had to look and squint and just think for an intense moment to finally understand that it was morning even without the light of the sun and that the sound he was hearing was the trickling rain on the windows and outer walls of the manor. Of Feodor, not a trace.

Grunting, Tom sat up and glanced at the grandfather clock on the mantel. He sighed in relief: it was still early and he had plenty of time to get ready for work, and perhaps get a Sober Up Potion on the way to the shop- but then he remembered that it was Sunday. His lips curled downwards at the prospect of a day spent doing absolute nothing. Because what could he possibly do without a flat to return to? Roam the streets?

The memories he had of the day before made his stomach turn.

Fortunately, the solution came with a  _pop_  sound followed by the appearance of an old, fragile house-elf carrying two vials of potions in his spidery hands.

Doing the possible to stand on his feet without his head spinning like a top, Tom rose and blindly reached for the vials of what he knew were potions for his hangover – he cringed at the term defining his current state - while the little creature, Parkey, cheerfully informed him that Master Nott was waiting for him in a sitting room down the hallway.

Dismissing the elf altogether, Tom quickly gulped down the liquid and Vanished the empty vials.

"Feeling better?" was Feodor's inquiry when Tom stepped in the room a few minutes later. "Feeling grateful? Debt from August fully paid?"

The young man sitting at the head of the long table didn't lift his eyes as Tom took a seat on his left, where a light breakfast had been laid for him; the man simply kept on reading the copy of the Daily Prophet sprawled under his nose while lightly blowing steam from the hot cup of tea cradled in his hands.

Just as Tom made to pick up his own cup of tea, the newspaper was wordlessly pushed towards him. He froze.

There, printed at the foot of the front page, was a black and white photo of two broken windows of a familiar building; many people were stopping to look up at the black smoke coming out from the flat while others came in and out of the place-  _his_  place.

Tom let his eyes slide over the article and understood that the photo had been taken the evening before, while the whole building was evacuated and flames extinguished. The wizards still working there were-

"They are looking for you," Feodor confirmed, nodding at Tom's puzzlement. He didn't seem concerned by the situation.

Tom, on the other hand, was feeling his insides twist in the most uncomfortable way.

"You  _were_  out the whole day yesterday," Feodor went on, sipping his tea. "Except for me, I doubt anyone knows you are here- and alive at that."

Replacing the cup on its saucer, Feodor stood and looked down at him.

"I took care of the mess you've caused at the park. This, though...," he waved his hand over the newspaper. "This you have to deal with alone."

He paused, his eyes softening. "She was there, you know. This morning. In your street."

Tom just looked at him and Feodor needn't say anything more.

Tom rose from his chair and left Nott Manor.

.

* * *

.

Murderer.

He was a murderer. A mad dark wizard seeking out power and immortality.

Horcruxes.

Did she know?

Did Hermione know what he had done with the death of that woman, that mother looking for her dear Iulian?

 _Yes, you robbed a child of his mother_ , a voice snapped in his head and Tom, instead of shooing the familiar, deep voice away, closed his eyes for a moment. And tried to imagine it. He tried to imagine his own mother, loving and adoring, looking for him in a forest.

_You've been so selfish, Tom. You, who knows more than anyone what it means to grow up in loneliness and darkness, you- you've still killed the mother of a child. So you can keep on living in your loneliness and darkness. Unloved. Uncared for. Alone-_

Tom fought back a growl and kept on walking along Whitehall towards a telephone booth. The closer he got, the more he was incapable of steadying his nerves.

She had been there. Hermione had been there that morning, in front of his house, even if now she knew that the last thing he wanted to do was die.

And yet she had been there- to witness what, exactly? See if he was hiding behind a waste bin while the wizards from the Ministry fixed his idea of prank?

No, Hermione knew better, because she was brilliant. She had been there while looking for him in order to turn him to the Aurors, probably.

But would she? Turn him to the Aurors?

He was a killer. And she knew-

 _She wouldn't_ , that annoying voice reassured him.

But Tom didn't know why she wouldn't do it: Hermione was a good person and her pacific war against injustices was well known to most of Britain, so-

 _You know why_.

Tom really didn't.

* * *

"-gave us quite a scare, Mr Riddle, quite a scare! To lose such a brilliant young man in that horrible incident... We-  _I am_  – so relieved to know you safe and sound. So fortunate that you happened to be at your friend's house and not at home yesterday, I can't bear to think of-"

"Yes, it's very fortunate," Tom convened, his eyes fixed on the ugly carpet of the office while Fudge carried on his monologue, his hands squeezing Tom's arms as if to make sure that the boy was really there in front of him and not a product of his imagination.

"Of course we'll fix this, erm, problem as soon as we can- Leave it to me, my dear boy, leave it to me. After all, I can only help someone who is so praised by many people- why, Horace was telling me about you only the other day. You must be proud of having such special and caring friends!"

 _Overwhelmed with joy_ , Tom inwardly rolled his eyes while plastering a humble smile on his face.

The Minister's responding grin fell when an interdepartmental memo charged into the office and pricked his ear.

"Well, I have an appointment now," he said, his mellow voice turning more practical as he scanned the note. He gave Tom a last half-grin before ushering him out of the door. "Well then, off you go, Mr Riddle. Have a good day!"

But good wasn't an adjective that Tom would have used to describe his day.

In fact, it was horrible, if not a total disaster.

First his neighbour and landlady Tess made her goal in life to not let him enter his flat, to which he had formal permission of access written by none other than the Minister for Magic himself. Tom had to stand outside of the building, in the sodding rain, while the woman obstructed the entrance and barked at him about the awful smell impregnating her walls, something that was quite impossible given that her door was opposite his and not even the hallway had been touched by the flames.

"Teresa, please, I'll fix your walls myself, but let me in," Tom pleaded for the eleventh time.

The woman gave up after only ten minutes of him begging- he could have used his wand and  _Imperio_ ed her, or done worse, but his magic still wasn't back to normal.

Then, upon entering his flat, he had to come to terms with the fact that everything was gone.

In his moment of blinding madness, he had destroyed everything he possessed, sparing nothing but the clothes he was wearing. And the walls of this ramshackle excuse for a home.

How could he have been so stupid as to let the anger consume him? Just because that cunt had discovered his secret, because she had left him, he had let her do this to him, had let her  _destroy_  him-

She had been a fucking weakness after all, what had he hoped for by dating her?

 _You know what_. The familiar voice taunted him.  _You wanted to taste her goodness and now you lost her. You selfish bastard, you wanted to use her to make you feel better about your-_

"SHUT UP!" Tom bellowed, punching the black wall of his living room. "Just- Shut... up..."

He sagged against the wall and fell onto the floor when his legs gave out, his energies spent while the voice kept torturing his head.

He had overreacted with those flames, he knew. But that was because- because...

"Because no one else knew about them," he whispered.

"Them?"

Them. Tom rubbed his eyes, feeling a weight pressing down on his shoulders, the responsibility of their deaths.

"The people I killed."

"I see."

Not only Tom could hear his voice in his head, now he could even see his figure approaching him from the corner of his eye.

The man who had entered his flat went to close the door with a soft click and then returned to where Tom was sitting, hugging his knees tightly to his chest.

"What happened here?" Strange how his voice sounded more  _outside_ of his head and not inside of it. "Really happened?"

Tom raised his eyes and forest green orbs flecked with amber met his own.

Remus Lupin was standing there, looking down at him in something very close to contempt but not quite it, appearing very real even in Tom's insanity.

"Remus?" he croaked, squinting at him.

"It's Mr Lupin to you," he said coolly. "You've been deprived of the right to call me with such familiarity the moment you broke Hermione's heart."

Remus crouched in front of him, pinning him against the wall with his icy stare. "Because that's what you did. You broke her heart. She won't tell me what's happened, but being a werewolf has its perks. I know what she saw, Mr Riddle."

A remote part of Tom's brain frowned at the new information: he had studied and researched thoroughly about werewolves, but never he had read they were naturally skilled in Legilimency.

"Here for vengeance,  _Mr_  Lupin?" Tom sneered and Remus narrowed his eyes.

"Not yet," he said. "I'm here to tell you that if you dare take only one step into my shop or in Hermione's flat without her consent, if you try to hurt her, physically or with your forked tongue... what you did to those people will pale in comparison to what I'll do to you."

"Don't worry Lupin, it's not like I care. It had to end one way or another."

Remus stood in one smooth movement and Tom followed suit. The two men were about the same height.

"Believe whatever makes you sleep at night, Riddle," the werewolf shrugged, taking a step towards the door. "You just stay away from her when she comes back."

Tom's heart stalled for a moment. "Comes back?"

Remus eyed him coldly, debating whether to tell him or not. Tom wasn't sure he wanted to know at this point.

"She took a few days off and went- away," he eventually said.

Then, the werewolf turned to the door. Tom's head was frantically working, trying to make it all out, even when the reality was plain simple.

"Wait," Tom said before Remus's hand could reach the doorknob. Managing to keep the fear out of his voice, he asked the older man's back, "Why aren't you turning me in?"

Remus still didn't turn when he answered softly, "Her heart is broken. I don't want to see her fall apart as well."

After two seconds of tense silence, the man looked over his shoulder, "And because I'm no better than you."

.

* * *

.

December 20th, 2004

There was a voice in Tom's head.

This voice had been speaking to him for months now, telling him always the same things, always expressing his disappointment.

Every time he walked down the narrow street of Knocturn Alley, every time he opened a book, every time he set a cauldron to prepare a new potion, every time he swallowed the dark content of a vial, every fucking time he looked at his reflection in the mirror and saw himself disappear, leaving behind a dull and pale shadow- every time he tried to get lost in alcohol or someone else's blood, Remus Lupin reminded him of what a big disappointment Tom was.

And Tom knew why his superego had made this choice of voice actor.

Because Remus Lupin was practically Hermione's father.

And Tom had destroyed his daughter.

Tom was lucky the man hadn't sought out a duel in her honour's name or, worse, killed him the last time they met. Tom might be powerful, but Lupin  _was_  an angry werewolf.

"-and eleven sickles," Tom reminded the customer, a hand still covering the little box placed between them on the counter.

"My dear young man, it's Christmas, wouldn't you-"

Tom glared at the woman, any semblance of pleasantry abandoned a long time ago, or so it seemed to him. The woman visibly recoiled.

"And eleven sickles, thank you," Tom said again, his voice calm. His eyes, though- they betrayed what was happening inside. He couldn't dwell on it, not now.

The woman went and another customer came.

It was a busy evening at Borgin and Burkes. The shop wasn't packed, Burke's place wasn't one where two different clients entered at the same time, but Tom had served twelve people today and, considering the price of the merchandise, the profit that Burke would make out of it wasn't of little consideration. And prices of goods skyrocketed in December.

"Oh, Tom, long time no see!"

She wasn't a classmate. He searched his mind to link a name to her face: she was someone's little sister. She was pretty, not beautiful, but her lips and body were full, all curves and innocence.

Little Astoria Greengrass pushed a box towards him. Tom opened it and, unsurprisingly, caught sight of a delicate necklace made of diamonds, one only big ruby nestled in its centre.

"I'd like to buy this for my mother," she smiled, her green eyes searching Tom's for approval. He inwardly sneered.

"Do you want to kill her?" he asked, not gently. The girl opened her mouth and then closed it, not knowing how to answer. "Don't worry, I was joking. This is curse-free."

Sighing in relief, Astoria gave him another tentative smile and Tom smiled back, observing her, studying her while she drew a handful of gold and he processed the payment. She wasn't a woman yet, her porcelain skin screamed of innocence, but her plump rosy lips were inviting.

Tom's eyes slid to her breasts, the top of them barely touched by her hair, soft and blonde and- No.

Gritting his teeth, he grabbed a paper bag and thrust the box in it. He handed it back to Astoria without a word.

It was useless even considering it. It wouldn't work. He knew because he had tried. Weeks ago, he had tried and it had ended in disaster; he hadn't been able to stand the sight of her dark curls, no matter how hard he had fisted and yanked them- No matter if she was blonde, redhead or a brunette, hair straight or wild, he wasn't able to find satisfaction and, to his shame, even the most remote beginning of pleasure. They didn't work.

Tom wasn't an animal. He didn't care if his cock impaled a female daily or at least once a week like other men did, because what he needed wasn't sexual release, but... something else. Something the  _other woman_  could have never given him. Another kind of pleasure.

The first girl, the brunette, was dead. Tom had killed her within a blink of her dull grey eyes. He had turned his wand on her after discovering what... he couldn't do. If he had been surprised by the revelation, or better, betrayal of his body, he didn't know because the green light had left the tip of his wand faster than even his brain had processed the incident.

That had sated him. Not sexually, but a part of him had felt empowered by the life he had taken, again.

The second woman, a middle-aged whore from the dirtiest corner of Knockturn Alley, he had tried to get inside of her, but to no avail. She had looked so scared that he just gave up and tortured her until only weak gasps came out from her throat. He had regretted it as soon as his  _Obliviate_  spell hit her and completely erased her memories.

He regretted everything he was becoming, but not enough to stop his experiments.

"I'll see you around then." Astoria waved her hand and made to step out of the shop, her blonde curls bouncing on her shoulders. Fake, Charmed to be soft and perfect, utterly boring curls.

The girl eyed him one last time and Tom fought an urge he rarely felt with strangers: to lower his gaze. To hide in shadows and cover his face. Because he knew what she was seeing.

Tom Riddle was changing. He had always known what he was in for, what to expect, he had started to see the first signs of the price he was to pay months ago, when he had still been pretending that everything was going to be okay.

It had started with his eyes, darker, bloodier pools of black and, sometimes, when rage overwhelmed him, red.

His hair was flat, gone were the curls covering the top of his forehead. Now he gelled it away from his face. He looked older, colder, and less approachable.

His skin. God, his skin. Its texture was transforming, turning into something inhuman, smooth and wax-like.

He had been beautiful before and now the remnants of his perfection were one dark choice away from giving place to a new set of ugly features.

As long as he received the power he wanted, he didn't care. Didn't care that everyone was going to feel repulsed by his face, didn't care that he would never bed a woman again, didn't care that from now on he had to either hide from the crowds or conceal his new appearance when in the streets.

But there was still time.

Just a bit of time.

.

* * *

.

December 31st, 2004

Tom didn't believe in coincidences. He knew that everything happened for a reason, the good and the bad, even the smallest things. Sometimes you could predict those things with a sixth sense or the use of intellect, like Divination and Arithmancy, and sometimes they just stumbled upon you and caught you. By surprise, unguarded, completely unprepared.

So, when on New Year's Eve Tom was walking through the horde of people invading Diagon Alley to reach the closest shop and buy a bottle of elf-wine for the Notts, something utterly unexpected happened: in a matter of seconds his heart-beat changed and picked up speed until his breath sharply caught in his lungs and his stomach clenched; in the back of his mind thousands of bells went off and an odd sense of anticipation crept up in his mind. It wasn't a sense of foreboding, just a sort of knowledge. Not able to explain it to himself and too astonished to even begin to try, he merely accepted it as a feeling. He just felt it.

Before seeing or hearing or even standing at a more convincing distance, Tom knew she was there somewhere, lost to his eyes in the crowd.

He came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street and stared ahead, jaw clenched, causing people to bump into his shoulders and mutter about his presumed idiocy before hastily walking away, shopping bags dangling from their arms. He didn't care.

Dragging in a lungful of cold air, he closed his eyes. When he reopened them, what he saw took his breath away. Again.

Two months wasn't a long time and yet it felt like an eternity since he had last seen her. Did it really take only two months for a young woman to become... this?

Tom stood there, frozen. It was like the crowd had decided to take pity on him and part, favouring him with a complete sight of her as she walked down the alley. She was doing it with a sort of grace and confidence he had never noticed from her. Her hair was pulled back in a simple chignon, stray curly strands framing her pale face, touching her rosy cheeks.

His heart sank and reality hit him, the truth he had never dared voice in his head, and the idea of going to her dissolved. Like the snowflakes falling from the grey sky of London melting into water as soon as they touched the dirty ground, the idea of walking up to her and demand to resume their acquaintance faded away, leaving a bitterness on his tongue that was difficult, if not impossible, to swallow.

Hermione was happy. When she turned to look at the window of a shop, she had this small smile lightly touching her lips, illuminating her whole face. Tom could almost hear her voice as she talked to a shopkeeper, gesturing to the goods on display.

Sighing, Tom turned away and started for the opposite direction, letting the people behind him merge back into the crowd.

.

But that feeling from before kept him alert the entire afternoon. One shop after the next, one gift after the other, Tom kept feeling her close, even if every time he swung around only faceless people were  _not_  following him.

Stepping out of Sugarplum's Sweet Shop an hour later, carrying a shocking pink bag of pasties and a cake for Feodor's wife, who was two weeks away from delivering a little Nott girl and always complaining about the absence of chocolate in the manor, Tom came to a sudden stop for the second time that day and almost collided with an elderly woman who didn't hesitate to smack his arm with her walking stick.

He didn't know what to make out of this not-a-coincidence.

Head hung low, Tom started walking, hoping that the witch sitting under the window of the small bar across the street wouldn't notice him. No such luck.

The moment Tom threw one quick glance in her direction, she raised her head and looked right at him. Her eyes widened.

Slowly removing her fist from under her chin, Hermione's lips slightly parted.

Tom bit the inside of his cheek, not sure if to nod his head or just ignore her and leave. But her insistent eyes demanded attention, the kind where he was supposed to enter the bar, greet her, exchange a few awkward pleasantries and pretend that it was okay to walk away like that, after a fake amiable almost-conversation.

Summoning all the courage and resolve he had left, Tom made up his mind and entered the bar. It was crammed inside, with people hunched over small round tables, talking loudly or muttering into their butterbeers. The woman behind the counter raised one sceptical eyebrow at his entrance before going back to her work. He looked out of place: clothed in formal robes and carrying shopping bags of various renowned brands, Tom looked like someone who would enter a high-class pub for an afternoon tea, not this chaotic bar.

As soon as he neared her table, Hermione shot to her feet. Her eyes were still comically wide and her hair was starting to escape from her hairdo and stretch wildly about her head.

 _A lioness indeed_ , Tom thought, cutting the distance between them with two strides.

"Hey," he said smoothly, inclining his head.

"Hey," Hermione echoed weakly. She resumed her seat and invited Tom to do the same. Tom complied, warily eyeing the woman in front of him, waiting for her to explode and shove all his sins and failings in his face and then proceed to call over the Aurors to take him to Azkaban. He could see himself being dragged off to prison and being left there to rot for eternity, and without a sentence because, come on, who would ever waste time and money on sentencing a madman who had once been a prefect and Head Boy? Both the Minister and the teachers he had been close to would get in serious trouble for supporting him and promoting his studies and researches.

All of this Tom saw while a waitress came to take his order, went back to the front of the bar, and returned with a steaming cup of coffee and a warm croissant he didn't remember ordering.

Just when he started to relax back in the chair, stirring sugar into his coffee, Hermione spoke.

"It's been a while." Her voice was cold.

After stirring for a few seconds more, Tom let the spoon clink on the saucer and brought the cup to his lips. He took a tentative sip of the hot black liquid, thought it was passable, and took another. Then, only then, with the half-empty cup placed back on the table, he lifted his eyes and met Hermione's chilling stare.

"It's been a while," he convened.

"You've changed," she commented, narrowing her chocolate eyes.

"You too. You look good."

"Mine wasn't a compliment."

Tom averted his gaze in favour of the window.

"Look at me," she ordered and, startled, Tom found himself looking back at her. "What have you been doing?"

"Work," he answered stiffly. Hermione cocked an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. He knew she was going to press for more the moment she started to tap her index finger, so he hastily asked, "What about you?"

She gave him that annoyed look, the one he knew so well, before answering reluctantly, "I took some time off. The Ministry has offered me a position in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

"Congratulations."

"I said that they've made a proposition, not that I'm accepting. I'm still assessing my options."

Tom nodded and finished his coffee.

"And how are your... friends?" he asked, grimacing at the word marking her protectors, the Wizarding World's fucking heroes Lupin and Potter.

"Fine," was the short answer. The long answer he could read in her glare,  _They are fine but would feel better if their hands were wrapped around your throat and you were chocking to death, begging for mercy like the sodding worm you are._

"Good." It wasn't. "I know you've been abroad. Anywhere interesting?"

Hermione turned her head, angled so that her stray curls fell in her eyes and hid her expression from him. But he felt the shift in the air. The noise in background faded and the lights dimmed and suddenly they were the only people in the bar, sitting at the only table of the place.

"Germany," she answered at last. She was fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. "I'm going back in a week."

Tom was about to nod when her words penetrated. "Going back? But what about work?"

Hermione just looked at him.

"What- The  _German_  Ministry offered you the job?"

A nod. "They knew about my petitions and researches. I met an officer from their department by chance while visiting Berlin."

The way she said it let Tom understand there was more behind this unexpected twist of events.

"And does this transfer have anything about... something other than work?" he fished, dropping his gaze to the dregs of coffee in the empty cup.

Hermione cleared her throat and bit her bottom lip. Tom's suspicions were confirmed.

Feeling a blazing rage rise in his chest, Tom clenched his hands into fists and pressed them into his thighs for fear he might do something he would surely regret later.

"Wow, only two months and you're already involved with a bloody kraut?" His voice came out glacial despite the warmth he felt, the taste of ashes on his tongue. "And what is he like? Tall and blond? Come on Granger, tell me everything about him, I'm curious."

"It's not like that-"

"Oh, it isn't, is it? It never is." Tom flashed his teeth in a mocking smile. "You really have been busy."

"I had an accident."

Tom's breath clogged in his throat.

"While visiting Berlin, I had a car accident. I was in the hospital. Alone." Her voice was a murmur and Tom had to strain his ears to catch her words. "It sounds stupid, but do you know what it is like, lying in a hospital bed in a foreign country? I was  _alone_."

Tom wanted to stretch his arm over the table and squeeze her hand. He didn't.

"And you weren't there." Hermione locked their gazes in place and accused him, "I was alone and it's all your fault. It's your fault I was there in the first place. If it hadn't been for you..."

Tom could see her struggle for the right words. In the end she slumped her shoulders in defeat and just confessed, "I stayed in Berlin because I needed to forget you. To be happy."

He already knew it but it still stung.

"And are you?" he cautioned, looking at her intently from under his eyelashes. "Happy?"

Hermione's lips quivered. "I'll be."

"Do you miss me?"

She didn't answer.

 _Because I do_. He really did. He had been trying so hard to deny it, to come up with excuses to hate her, but in the end what was wrong was him. It had been him all along. In truth he-

"Happy birthday, Tom."

Hermione dropped a few silver coins on the table and stood. She left the bar without a final glance at him. And he let her.

Tom stayed there for a moment, his eyes lost in the evening growing darker on the other side of the glass, frost forming in the corners; the snow kept falling and piling in the street, still white and pure, causing a smile on the chubby face of a boy hopping just under the bar's window.

It was his birthday, Tom remembered. And in less than six hours a new year would greet him.

Roughly pushing back his chair, Tom tossed a banknote on the table and dashed for the door.

"Wait!" he shouted, flinging himself into the street, bumping into people while he tried to forcibly make his way through the crowd, his gaze searching frantically for Hermione.

He ran, calling her name, the freezing air biting into his skin right to the bone, until he saw her two shops away from him, close to the nearly deserted corner of an Apparition point. He broke into a sprint.

"Hermione, wait!"

Hermione swung around, her eyes wide, when Tom grasped her wrist.

"W-What," she stammered, blinking up at him, tiny snowflakes caught in her long eyelashes and curls. "Your coat, you don't have it, are you mad..."

Frowning, she realised he was seizing her hand. She tried to pull away. She failed and Tom pushed her towards him, not letting go. Their noses were almost touching, he with his head bent low and hers strained to look up at him. She didn't like it.

"Let go of me this instant," Hermione seethed, "let me go-"

"No!" Tom bellowed.

Hermione tried to shove him away again with her free hand. "Let me go-"

"I missed you!" he growled in her face, the hold on her wrist tightening. "I fucking missed you!"

He was panting, his breath steaming in the cold air.

Hermione let out a strangled noise and kept fighting his grip on her, but he was immovable.

"And I still fucking do," Tom said through his teeth. "And I-"

A  _smack_. A slap. Tom's head turned with the force of the blow, but what hit him more was the sense of déjà-vu, a,  _here we go again_ , and then he looked back at her in hurt surprise and she was staring back at him through her tears.

"God, I hate you," she hissed, jerking her hand free. She shoved him in the chest and he staggered a step back only to collide with a wall.

"I really fucking hate you," she said again before fisting her hand in his hair and slamming her lips against his.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm a bad person. I let so much time pass between one update and another they should create a ring of hell just for people like me - because, hey, I'm not the only sinner here.
> 
> In a review, someone pointed out that in the last scene in part 3, Hermione slapping Tom looks a bit out of place. Well, I'm aware that sometimes I'm not really good at writing down the emotions I want to convey, so I apologise if someone found it a bit too dramatic! What I wanted to say there is that Hermione has just discovered that the man she loves is a murderer and, despite being sad and scared, she's definitely angry and disgusted. She'd trusted him and now she discovers that he has just killed a woman. She can't condone such an act. So she slaps him. (This answer is the one I also gave the reviewer.) Let me know if I'm falling into too much drama and cheesiness though! I'll go back to dark and gore right away! And, by the way, I'm writing a new story, definitely darker and bloodier, for an AO3 challenge. I can't wait to finish and share it!
> 
> I also know you are waiting for a Dark Games' update. Soon, I promise!
> 
> And OMG your reviews! Thank you so much! I hope you've liked this chapter and that it was worth the long waiting!


	5. Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mature content ahead

 

December 31st, 2004

After Apparating to his flat, they hadn't wasted time to let repressed instincts kick in, and now that he thought about it, they hadn't even uttered another word between then and this moment, so lost in their own feelings. It was overwhelming, like the part that hurt the most of his soul had been returned to him.

And he was hurting again, they both were, more than ever. He could taste her pain on her lips, in her broken breaths. But it was worth it for he had never felt so whole in his life... and it should have been impossible, feeling this way.

Tom blinked, sobering up a little, and realised Hermione's clothes had been discarded in a heap on the floor; the sight was so startling he felt his heart grow tight in his chest. They had never let their lust completely take over, making either of them forget they had a brain, and they had never found themselves naked outside of the bed, or maybe the couch- and, yet, as he would discover later, the limit of their passion definitely was  _not_  the floor of his newly refurnished living room, no matter how hard he wanted to take the woman currently straddling him.

They didn't even waste energy to breathe, finding that all the oxygen they needed was in each other's mouth.

Hands frantically touching him, remembering, marking, Hermione shifted her hips and let out a needy sound. Tom stilled for a moment and just stared at her, mesmerised. He opened his mouth at the way she sought pleasure from rubbing against him, her eyes closed in bliss and then squeezed, her brows knitted in pain, while her chignon fell apart and wild curls spilled down her back and shoulders, swaying with her.

His hands went to her hips to guide her, pressing her harder against him, his fingers digging in her flesh, leaving bruises she would discover later.  _Still mine_ , they said. He had no illusion that they would not upset her for the reminder they were. He actually had no illusion that Hermione would walk out of his flat with a smile on her face either, eyes dazed by the countless orgasms he would force out of her.

Tom read it in her eyes the moment she opened them.

_I want to fuck you but that doesn't mean I don't hate you._

His hold on her hips tightened.

_Give me what I want and then I'll leave._

Tom gritted his teeth. He raised his hips and Hermione almost lost balance. She placed her hands on his chest for support and glared, her eyes clearing, but didn't try to change position. On the contrary, she kept moving over him.

 _Why are you still in your clothes?,_  she asked, a low moan escaping her lips.

Tom eyed her, eyebrows arched.  _You're the one who couldn't keep her clothes on. I planned to remain dressed all along._

_Liar._

With a growl Tom had Hermione trapped beneath him, her squirming and gaping, him grounding into her.

"Did you kill others?"

"The question, Granger, should be, were there any others?"

"For me, yes- and I'm sure there were... for you as well. Now answer the damn question."

Tom hardened, not at the thought of her with other men, but at the foretaste of the pleasure she would bring him while he punished her for angering him. And how angry he was.

"So there  _was_  a bloody kraut," he hissed, grasping a handful of her hair and thrusting against her cotton-clad sex.

"Did you kill others, Riddle?"

"Will you run if I did?" Tom knelt between her thighs to cup her with a hand, the other still buried in her hair.

"Yes."

"And will you turn me in?"

Tom inserted a finger, pushing the cotton in her wetness. Hermione emitted a series of guttural sounds and jerked her hips, trying to get away from him, but her attempts were so pathetic and futile that he rubbed his thumb over her clit, eliciting a very satisfied whimper from her.

"Why didn't you turn me in, Granger?" he asked, carefully studying the way her eyes obtained that glassy look, molten chocolate in cream, the one he knew meant that she was so close.

"Please," she husked. Tom pushed her knickers aside and plunged two fingers.

"Why?"

"I-I-"

"Why, Hermione?" His voice grew demanding, his fingers working her fast. "Why didn't you call the Aurors? Why-"

"TOM!" Hermione shouted, her hand flying to his wrist, keeping him in place as her hips bucked.

"I'm a killer so why the fuck didn't you call the Aurors, Hermione!" Tom barked, his fingers riding her orgasm, fast and efficient, while she came undone. Her head dropped back and hit the floor- "HERMIONE!"

"BECAUSE I'M SELFISH!"

She didn't lift her head. She stayed there, looking at the ceiling, fat tears rolling down the sides of her face. He still had half of his hand in her shaking body.

"Because," she panted, her lips trembling, "because I'm selfish. I can't- can't bear the idea... of you in- in Azkaban."

Tom sneered. "You should have run."

"Bastard-  _What_!"

Hermione gasped in horror and tried to sit, but Tom had her by the hips, his head already positioned between her legs, her knickers tossed somewhere behind him. Without giving her the time to recover from her high, he attacked her clit with his lips and tongue, sucking and lightly biting and licking. He had her raise her hips to meet his mouth mid-air.

"Tom, stop-"

"I killed others besides the one you saw in my head," he told her, his fingers pushing inside her once again, his nose nuzzling her mound. "A woman. A girl. A man. An old couple. Another woman."

"Get away from me-"

Hermione tried to shrug him off, rolling her hips, but Tom's hold on her was firm, his mouth attached on the button of her pleasure inducing one shock after the other, his tongue drawing sobs and groans. Replacing his tongue with digits, he emerged and looked at her.

He continued, "I almost fucked the last one. But guess killing her was more fulfilling. Because her perfect curls weren't yours. And you are not perfect. You're a fucking mistake."

She could have used wandless magic, thrown him off of her, Stunned him, ran away, but she just kept crying, half-heartedly trying to remove his hands from her sex.

"But it seems that I love fucking my mistake."

Her hand was in his hair, pushing his head, hard, between her thighs. And Tom kept working on her, licking while she cried, fingering as he talked, describing what exactly he had done during her absence, the blood, the deaths, the experiments.

"I HATE YOU!" Hermione shouted it when she came.

Maybe she really did. He was under her. Fists were in his face. His nose cracked under the hits, his chest bled under the fingernails, the dark red liquid soaking through his shirt. And then she was gone.

"I'll die." She was behind him, standing, already impeccably dressed. "Sooner or later I'll die. I may die tomorrow."

Tom clenched his hands by his sides. "Don't even say it."

"But it's the truth. I'll die and you won't. This is what you desire."

"I don't want you to  _die_."

"But that's what's going to happen." She said it as a simple matter of fact. "I know about your Horcruxes."

Tom sat up, his head cradled in his hands, eyes staring at the floor.

"We are too... distant."

"What are you saying?" He felt a rush of panic rise from his belly and invade his chest.

"That I-" A sob. "I love you." It was less than a whisper and he almost missed it.

Tom lifted his head and blinked against the dots swimming in his vision.

"But you're too distant from me."

"What are you saying?"

"If I go, will you keep on like before?"

"Yes."  _Your absence is my demise._  He was bound to fully turn into what she feared without that kind of light straightening his will.

"Do you love me?"

 _Yes_. He loved his mistake. Fuck, he loved her.

Hermione exhaled.

And then she was gone for real.

* * *

" _Do you love me?"_

What difference did it make? He could love her and still be a murderer.

" _I won't stand by and see you throw yourself away."_

She had sworn.

" _Stop, Tom. I'll help you, I swear. Just stop this."_

And here she was, gone. He had believed her. Even before their first conversation, he had believed she would unconsciously help him change his mind. But nothing had changed.

Did he like the way he was? He didn't like it, he didn't hate it. It was a mere necessity.

" _You are testing dark magic, actually consuming it, and whatever you're doing is consuming_ you _."_

He had always known that, from the very start. He had been ready for it.

" _The payment will only increase with time if you don't stop."_

Did he care? As long as he was immune to death, did he care about the way he looked like, or smelled, or sounded?

" _Death isn't an enemy to defeat. The idea of dying might scare me, but the thought of my soul abused scares me more."_

His soul. He had defiled it thrice. Abused it over and over again. He was alive but not really.

And Hermione knew what he was. Or wasn't. So what difference could his feelings possibly make to her?

" _I know about your Horcruxes."_

" _Do you love me?"_

Sitting on the cold floor, his legs cramped from sitting with them stretched in front of him, his shirt bloodied and torn, Tom looked out of the window, at the snow falling in the night, and understood.

.

* * *

.

The night was growing darker, the cold and damp air biting into his limbs through the many layers of clothes he wore, through the heavy coat hanging from his shoulders and billowing behind him. A cat crossing the street paused in front of a parked car. Yellow eyes pierced his own. The creature hissed and ran away, leaping over a wall.

He walked along the empty street of the neighbourhood, smoke rising in spirals from the wet ground every now and then, traces of the recent celebrations. He wasn't taking part of them tonight. Nott had sent him a Howler earlier, asking where the hell Tom was. Tom had ignored him and left his flat a few minutes later.

It was going to be a new year soon. Two hours and he would turn twenty-three.

He couldn't say his birthday was boring.

Her flat was empty. He had checked on his first Apparition. She wasn't with the Potters, he had checked on his second, peering through the frosted window giving on the back garden. Not with the Blacks either. Not the Weasleys.

So here he was.

Voices and music drifted from the houses on either side of the street, warm lights filtering through the windows. People cheering and partying, children singing, couples dancing, old men drinking.

Walking up a driveway, Tom listened, straining his ears to catch a familiar voice from the unfamiliar house, but only a soft piano and the laughter of a child, accompanied by that of a man, could be heard. The closer he got to the door, the more voices he counted. A party was behind these walls.

"Lils, where's the pudding?"

Standing over a doormat that said 'Welcome' in capital letters, Tom hesitated and felt with a gloved hand for the heavy vial in the inside pocket of his coat.

This could go very wrong. He wasn't certain that the man hadn't changed his mind about calling the Aurors.

"Haven't you had enough, James?" Someone mumbled something on the other side.

Tom inhaled sharply and rang the doorbell.

"Coming!" a voice called and the sound of hurried steps got closer until the door swung open.

Squinting at him, Remus was grinning.

"Hello, what-  _oh_."

Grin disappearing from his face, the man scowled.

"Hello Lupin," Tom said coolly.

Clenching his jaw, Remus stepped outside and closed the door behind him, cutting off the deafening sounds coming out of his house.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, his eyes narrowed to slits.

Tom stared back, unruffled and calm. "Hermione has disappeared. And before you tell me her whereabouts are none of my business, just know that I met her today and that now I can't find her anywhere."

"She must have returned to Germany. She has a boyfriend now. Her parents are there too."

Tom bit the inside of his cheek. "No, she's not there. I called her mother, she hasn't seen her."

Helena hadn't yelled at him when she had picked up the phone. Her voice had strongly resembled her daughter's, though softer and warmer. There had been no resentment when he had told her his name and why he was calling, presenting a distorted truth of his reasons.

" _Is she there?"_

" _No, she doesn't even answer her mobile phone. I've tried to call her so many times. Do you think something's happened? Is she in trouble?"_

Hermione had been in trouble so many times when a teen that her mother had immediately thought the worst.

" _No, I don't think so."_  But something had definitely happened.

"She isn't here," Remus said. His eyes twitched slightly.

"Where then?"

"What," Remus growled, "have you done, Riddle?"

Tom snorted. "Why do you think I've done anything to her?"

"Don't pull this shit with me, kid." But he wasn't asking where the young woman was.

The moment Remus took a menacing step towards him, the door behind him opened and a pink head appeared within the crack of light.

"Remus, what are you doing out here?" a young woman asked. "Who is it?"

"Just a friend, Dora," he said over his shoulder, flashing her a smile. "He's going."

"Oh, but what about a glass of champagne to celebrate?" Dora – Nymphadora Tonks, Tom guessed, frowning at her bubblegum pink hair – beamed at him, waving her hand for him to come in.

Remus threw him a dirty glance but stepped aside.

Tom didn't have the time to take in his surroundings that his host seized his arm and dragged him down a narrow corridor, away from the living room of which Tom had a fleeting glimpse; apparently there were a giant black dog and a blue-haired kid chasing a toddler while two couples clutched their stomachs in laughter.

"As I said, she's not here," Remus declared, closing the door of his small study. Bookshelves covered all walls and the unmistakable scent of leather and paper filled the air, mixed with something else, something much more familiar than old books, something that, more than he cared to admit, smelled like his flat. And then there was another scent, more insistent, one that caused a wave of longing to punch him in the guts. It reminded him of another flat, of another time.

Lips curling upwards, Tom faced the werewolf. "Quite the collection you have, Mr Lupin."

The man leaned against the edge of a wooden desk. He gave him a withering look. "I taught Defence  _Against_  the Dark Arts, Riddle. Don't believe even for a second that we belong to the same category."

"And yet, if memory serves me correctly, you confessed to being no better than I."

"And I'm not. My experiments didn't involve murder."

Tom kept his face impassive. "But you did kill."

A muscle in the man's jaw twitched.

"And you didn't realise it until it was too late."

Remus was holding himself still, waiting.

"And Hermione knows. That's why she's so obsessed with the Wolfsbane Potion."

"My, aren't you smart?" Remus laughed bitterly, leaning forward. "You've figured it all out."

"Where is she?"

"How should I know? She doesn't tell me everything."

At that, Tom smiled and turned away from him. He took his time, pretending to contemplate his bookcases, reading titles, seeing past the glamour placed on the spines, each tome darker than the next, while in truth he was drawing out his wand, counting the seconds left to use it. He had no doubt Remus had Warded the door so his wife or whoever was partying out there couldn't enter the room.

Tom shifted his feet. A sharp intake of breath alerted him. Just what he had expected.

A heartbeat later both men had their wands trained on the other, but Tom moved his a few inches away from him, just as Remus shouted, " _Expelliarmus!_ "

" _Reducto!_ "

The cauldron boiling in the corner of the room exploded and fumes, dust and debris collided with Tom's invisible wall, away from his and Remus' stunned faces. Tom, who had dodged the man's curse, removed the protective charm as soon as the dust was safely on the ground; with another flick of his wrist, he Vanished the foul thing intoxicating the air, absorbing it with the tip of his wand.

Remus lunged for him.

"You bastard! It's the full moon!" he shouted, his outstretched arms going for his throat.

Tom just pointed his wand at his chest. Remus halted, the stick brushing his sweater and leaving a small burn through the fabric. That's when Remus realised his hand was empty. His Cypress wand was lying on the floor, close to the door.

"And?" Tom asked flatly.

"And," Remus gritted out, loathing dripping from his voice, "in moments the full moon will reach the zenith and I'll fucking turn. And you just destroyed the only potion that will save my kids from me, you asshole!"

"Calm down, wolf, your kids and lovely wife are safe." Smirking, Tom reached into his coat and pulled out a vial.

Remus recognised it instantly. He stepped back. "No, that's not safe-"

Tom laughed and put him in a half Full Body-Bind Curse that rooted Remus to the floor.

"Don't you dare, Riddle-" The werewolf tried to seal his lips but Tom pinched the man's nose and forced the liquid down his throat.

"You fucking bastard!"

Freed from the curse, the man dove for his wand and turned on Tom, anger flaring from his nostrils, traces of the wolf shadowing his face. "What have you done! I'll kill you, Riddle!"

Tom twirled his wand between his fingers, smirk still stretched over his lips. "Go ahead Moony. Try. But before you do, look out of the window."

Remus followed Tom's gaze.

He cursed. Then gasped.

Shrouded by a thin layer of clouds, the full moon faintly glowed in the sky, paler and lower than usual, but high enough for all the werewolves of London to raise their muzzles and howl. All except for perhaps one.

Remus' eyes were glowing too, the liquid colour changing from green to gold. He braced himself.

Tom remained calm, a hand shoved deep in the pocket of his pants, the other still idly turning his wand between his fingers and palm. There were, after all, risks worth taking and this was not one of them. That's how sure he was of the stunt he had just pulled.

One minute passed and nothing happened. Remus let three full minutes pass before letting the relief consume him. It was more than relief. It was the pain of thirty-nine years spent crying in a cellar.

Now Remus was eyeing the moon in wonder. Had he been alone, Tom was sure the man would have wept.

Tom lowered his wand and spoke to his back. "Hermione worked on that potion. I watched her struggle and sweat over it for months. Do you really think that she would give you something less than perfect to ingest?"

At last Remus twisted around with an accusing glare. " _You_  gave me the potion."

"I took it from her flat."

"Last time I checked, the potion wasn't finished."

"No. I finished it. Only one ingredient was missing." Tom remembered Hermione pulling at her hair in frustration, crying at her own failures with the cauldron seething in her living room. And he had known the solution to her problem all along. "She did find the solution on her own. She wrote it down. But since she just decided to disappear before acting on it, I added the last drop myself and brought this to you. So you can, let's say, begin the new year looking like a human instead of a terrifying monster. I'm sure your wife will appreciate the news. Tonight you can put your werewolf instincts to use, you know, go mate- "

"Wait- she was still experimenting with the potion? On vacation?" Remus looked impressed and, if Tom read correctly the way he puffed his chest, quite proud.

"Again, this is Hermione we're talking about."

Remus shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. "And what was this last ingredient?"

Tom's smirk disappeared, but his voice remained light. "Acceptance."

Remus' eyes darkened. "There's no ingredient such as 'acceptance'."

Sometimes even the smartest people say the stupidest things, Tom thought. He heaved an exasperated sigh. "No, but Lilac can do just the same."

Laughter and music were tuned in again, carrying on through the house into the room. The two had been standing there and staring at each other for quite some time.

"That was a show of my good faith," Tom said, pocketing his wand.

"You're kidding, right?" Remus exclaimed incredulously. "You call barging in here and forcing an untested potion down my throat a show of your good faith!?"

Tom shrugged. "The potion's been tested now. Feel like vomiting or turning yet?"

Remus curled his nose but didn't offer a retort. He felt great and they both knew it.

Moving casually, Tom went to stand before the door and leaned against the cold surface. "So, where is she?"

Remus just looked at him.

Tom schooled his features into a mask of patience, but deep down apprehension was threatening to come to the surface.

"Hermione isn't stupid," he said. "I know she would never leave without telling someone her whereabouts. And that someone, Lupin, is you. She tells you everything. So, I'll ask again, where is she?"

"I know what happened," Remus stated instead. He didn't appear disgusted or overly furious.

"She told you?"

"There's no need. I can always tell."

Tom cocked his head as if to say,  _Go ahead then, tell me_.

"I swear, if you-"

"I won't," Tom cut him off. "Where is she?"

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled.

"She's gone to that place she saw when she used Legilimency on you." Shifting his eyes to the window, he muttered under his breath, "Against my better judgement."

A minute later, on his way out, Tom was met with the sight of all the occupants of the house waiting by the living room's entrance, holding glasses of alcohol or plates filled with sweets, and presenting expressions varying from distrust to curiosity. A pink-haired girl playing on the mat lifted her head to give him a dazzling smile. Tom flinched when the colour of her hair changed from pink to black within a blink.

Lupin's wife laughed at his reaction, "She does that sometimes. She likes you."

"'Ike!" the kid echoed, grinning proudly at her mother.

Tom inclined his head and walked out of the house without another word, ignoring Lupin's wife invitation to drink champagne and stay a bit more. She hadn't even asked for his name. People were weird.

.

* * *

.

Tom had let Hermione see a lot, way too much, when she had used Legilimency on him.

But she wasn't at Riddle Manor.

Tom sighed in relief upon finding the house empty- the floor and all surfaces were covered by a thick layer of dust collected in years of abandon, even and undisturbed if not for a few small footprints that undoubtedly belonged to rats.

He hated the place, this dreary reminder of his dirty blood, but he still hesitated in the foyer, taking in the walls- and finally he stepped inside to take a look around the living room, noticing the jagged shards of the broken chandelier still lying on the tiled floor, the moth-eaten carpet stained with something black that, he knew, was blood, and the white sheets covering the furniture.

The air stank. Both the smell and the view were sickening.

He couldn't help it, though, in a moment of clarity or madness, envisioning a warmly lit room.

Polished antique wood against a marble lucid floor, framed photos hung on the walls and others placed on the piano in the corner, an instrument he would have someone repair because he knew she would play it and not forget it in the décor. And the double windows that gave on the garden would remain open day and night, in the summer to let the fresh air in, and in the winter just so she could look at the stars blinking in the dark sky from the couch, safely tucked in the warmth that came with the house; or perhaps he would place the charm on the grounds, so she could step out onto the patio and walk into the garden with the snow under her bare feet and no coat over her shoulders- she could walk naked, even, in winter, through her garden, followed by her ugly cat.

There it was, a massive house that could be rebuilt to be something good, and be lived by good people like her, and it was his. And he had never wanted it, had loathed the very picture of it- until that very moment.

But first he had to find her.

.

* * *

.

"Tom. Marvolo. Riddle!"

Tom turned around and rolled his eyes at the approaching figure of Severus Snape. The man looked as dark and broody as ever, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings everyone believed he had; Tom suppressed a chuckle at the image of his former teacher sleeping upside down from a beam or a gargoyle's foot high on a tower of the castle.

"Despite the very amusing idea, I can assure you I sleep in a bed, Riddle," Snape said quite coldly, glowering at the younger man. Tom smirked, shrugging, and the other sighed tiredly. "Should I ask how you managed to get in, or dare I say, break in?"

The corners of his lips twitching upwards, Tom answered by angling his head towards the end of the corridor, where the statue of the One-Eyed Witch stood.

"Fine, I don't want to know." Snape turned on his heel and took off towards the other end of the corridor. Tom wordlessly followed him, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat, with an air of complete ease around him as if he  _hadn't_  broken in Hogwarts like a common thief. "But I need to know what the hell you're doing here- when you should party or do whatever people your age do."

"Why are  _you_  here?" Tom asked instead.

"None of your damn business, Riddle."

"Come on, Sev, it's a new year, don't you have friends to spend this night with? A woman- a man?" Snape's glower deepened but no sharp retort came out of his mouth. "You know, the least you could is smile."

"I don't remember you being so talkative when you were a student. Gryffindors must have rubbed off on you. Bad influence. But, again, I heard  _your_  Gryffindor left you, so that might be it."

Tom knew the man was just trying to get a rise out of him, not in spite but in boredom, so he grinned. "Au contraire, my dear friend, I got her back and I'm now on a love mission."

Snape eyed him for a moment. Then, he smiled knowingly. "You lost her again."

Tom scowled and quickly checked his mental shields- they were down. With a glare at Snape, he placed them back up. Snape merely laughed.

"I know exactly where she is," Tom gritted out. "I just need something I left here."

"Whatever, Riddle." The teacher stopped at the entrance to give Tom a curt nod before swinging around and disappearing into the shadows. So dramatic, the bat of the dungeons.

After making certain there was no unwanted attention on his person – he didn't want to be caught by Dumbledore, now, did he? - Tom disappeared with a wandless Disillusionment Charm and started climbing the staircase in the direction of the fifth floor.

.

* * *

.

Gusty trees encircled the place. Chilly air wafted through the branches, promising snow, more white blankets to cover the old soil and keep the creatures of the forest from coming out and freeze to death.

The object he was carrying recognised the place. It was its home. Their home. Far away but close, hidden in another world, they felt it approach. Old wounds reopened.

Blood tinged the moon of red.

He took a step past a tree and the wind started to roar.

He took another, past a frozen bush of thorns, and raindrops started to fall from the sky, scattered by the strong current of air.

Soon enough a rainstorm was raging and he was drenched.

She didn't turn.

Even when he was close enough for her to hear the ground crushed under his boots, she didn't turn.

"This is where she died. You killed her here."

Her voice was quiet but Tom heard her anyway. He kept walking on the trampled snow, over to her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice clear over the dour sound of the wind.

He already knew what, Hermione knew he did too, so she didn't respond. Her hands hovered over the cavity of the white ancient tree. She touched the trunk, just above the hollow, where the wood branched out.

He wasn't close enough, but Tom halted there, waiting for her to turn and face him. She didn't.

Primming up his mouth, he reached into his coat. "Are you looking for this?"

At that, Hermione turned around.

In his hand was a heavy box of black velvet. He opened it.

Eyes widening, Hermione raised her wand.

Tom smiled and resumed his dallying, making sure to keep his hands holding the diadem high in front of him, between him and her.

"This is what you're looking for," he said, walking slowly, his unblinking eyes not leaving hers. She looked just like when she had left him that evening, only her hair was wet, her cheeks and nose red. There was a dangerous glint in her gaze. "This is what you want to destroy."

Hermione's visibly braced herself when Tom picked up the pace.

"As you well know, part of my soul is in here." He was striding towards her now.

"Tom-" she pleaded him, for what neither was sure, but then he was upon her, the box touching her rising and falling chest.

"My soul's in here," he said again, louder over the rain, panting, grabbing her hand to hold the box caged between them. Her hand was limp, and when Tom let go, box and diadem fell down.

Abandoned on the snow.

"It's yours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've avoided writing sex scenes for the past four parts just because of this moment. When it happened, it had to be perversely epic and controversial. I don't want to spend too many words on it. Feel free to let me know if this is a disappointment or if you can live with it. What do you think will happen next? Well, we're almost there.
> 
> In December 2004, the real full moon was on the 26th. I apologise to the moon for postponing its phase.
> 
> And thank you so much for all the lovely comments! Really, thank you!


	6. Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mature content ahead

 

He had given it. His soul, to her.

But it had been hers all along, in this life and all the lives they had shared before, he knew, he just  _knew_.

Hermione's hands flew to clutch his coat and Tom kissed her hard. He tasted the rain on her mouth.

Would she have tasted the same, that day when they had first met in his shop?

He shoved her against the trunk of the tree and slipped his tongue in her mouth, claiming. She claimed back, her fingers sneaking under his coat to fumble with his belt.

In the back of her mind, he was sure, voices reminded her of where they were, what had happened in this place, what he had done. So his hands travelled down her wet clothes and made her forget. What they were doing, where they were. Who was watching. What whispers were floating around them.

Tom inhaled sharply when Hermione freed his length from its confinement, now hard and ready in her grasp.

It was uncomfortable, drops of rain trailing down their faces, sliding under their clothes, even though the old tree seemed to protect them from the worst of the rainstorm.

But Tom was powerful. Protective Charms formed around them and finally there were only Hermione and him gasping in the centre of the clearing, ghosts on the other side of their own little world.

Trapped between his arms, Hermione cried out when Tom entered her.

_On the other side, a woman was clutching her chest, the blood gushing out from the deep stab wound staining her pale hands. Ragged breaths were torn from her throat. The intervals between them lengthened. Insulting and crying her name, a man was on her, again, taking the knife protruding from her breast and thrusting it into her heart, twisting it with feral rage. He lifted it a few inches only to push deep again, never removing the damned weapon from the flesh. Again and again._

_Snow mixed with rain fell around them. It turned red as soon as it touched the ground._

_The man's other hand was around her purple neck, choking her, cutting air from her lungs. He pressed his fingers until blood welled out of her mouth. She gurgled until sounds came out no more._

_The man kept spitting insults in her face. Broken sobs shut him up._

" _I'm so sorry my love, so sorry... my little raven... so sorry-"_

_He extracted the knife from her chest and without taking breath stabbed his own._

_The candid snow was splattered crimson._

_A flock of birds charged over._

_A roaring wind rose._

Another cry resounded in the forest. The wind infuriated, bending branches and trees through the inky night, singing of lust and pain and blood.

Tom grunted, relentlessly thrusting into Hermione. She bit his lips, drew blood.

She was stripping him, letting all the layers fall down like rain, baring him until it was his broken soul lying on the white snow.

He broke her, she saved him. He fucked her, she exposed him to himself. The more she took, the harder he drove into her.

But he was also doing something else. He even breathed it into her mouth, tunnelled it into her sex. Whispered it into her ear. Tears escaped from her eyes when he did. She kissed him, all fierce and light to his darkness, and orgasmed, and let him express it into her over and over again under the faint rain he had let fall through his Charms.

Around them, whispers and cries mingled with moans, and hearts bled again, but Tom and Hermione were lost into their desperation, or maybe the hatred and agony sizzling in the forest were lost to them.

Uncaring of who could see, of the ghosts fading in the wind, Hermione's muscles clenched around Tom's cock and both came with a shout.

Struggling for breath, Tom took Hermione's face in his hands and pushed back the strands of wet hair plastered to her face. When she started shivering uncontrollably, he tightened his hold on her, offering his warmth.

"Promise me," she said loudly, holding him by the lapels of his coat, "promise me you won't kill anyone else."

Still buried in her, Tom squeezed his eyes shut and tenderly kissed her lips.

"I promise," he lied.

.

* * *

.

January 1st, 2005

A small breeze kept him awake. Blowing into his back, it came through the window he had opened just a crack earlier. Hermione was sleeping, undisturbed, curled against his chest and nesting in his warmth, shielded with his body from the crisp air.

Resting on his side, head propped on a fist, Tom stayed there for a while. He was revelling in the sight of Hermione lying in his bed, pearls of sweat still gathered on her forehead from their recent lovemaking.

It had been short but intense, he remembered with a smile. They had taken it from the kitchen to the couch, from the carpet to finally the bed.

"I love you," she had whispered in his ear, her hands combing his hair.

He had made a non-committal sound, an 'hmm' to which she had responded with a light punch on his arm. Then she had reminded him that since he had told her the three words already, over and over again while making love, actually, whispering, and howling them at a certain point, telling her again wouldn't make a difference. Not now that she knew- and she wasn't going to easily forget. She wanted to hear it again.

"What were you doing in Diagon Alley?" he had asked instead.

He felt a stupid grin parting his lips at the memory of her flushed face. She had averted her gaze and muttered, "I was following you."

He had immediately sat up in bed and gaped at her. "So, you- I meeting you- in that bar- wait, that wasn't a  _coincidence_?"

Hermione's blush had deepened. He had barked out a laugh and thoroughly snogged her.

She had fallen into slumber right after. He hadn't.

No, he was too alert, too conscious. He was... restless.

For just one night he had obtained the two things he had sought all his life, two points he had always believed would never meet in his reality. But for just one night they had.

Acceptance of death. Purpose. This last one still made him wonder, because if it had once meant power, now it signified something else entirely.

Hermione sighed in her sleep and Tom moved a stray strand of curls from her forehead.

"I do love you," he told her.

Tonight he had everything that really mattered one breath away from him. That everything was keeping her hand on his chest, but what she didn't know was that she actually had both hands around his heart, holding him and his soul with a love he didn't deserve.

Ironic how it had to end so soon, now that he had discovered and accepted.

Because he had thrived on people's blood for too long, he knew his acceptance wouldn't be enough. But not enough was okay. Everything that mattered was sleeping peacefully on his mattress, at least for tonight, so it was okay.

He placed a soft kiss on Hemione's warm lips and got out of bed. Smiling, he walked out of the flat into the cold night.

.

* * *

.

"You can't be serious."

"Keep it. Just in case."

"Where are you going?"

"Somewhere."

"When should we expect you to return?"

"Who knows. If I don't, you give this to Hermione."

Feodor eyed the parchment held in his hands. "You can't be serious. At least tell me where you're going."

"I'm going home."

His friend frowned at him. He was realising only now that he didn't know where home was for Tom Riddle.

Tom patted Feodor's shoulder. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Damn it, how can you thank me when I have this bloody- bloody  _will_  here?"

Tom's lips quirked in amusement. "I didn't take you for the sentimental type. And I was even starting to like you, Nott."

Tom faltered as Feodor's scowl deepened. Rolling his eyes, he grabbed his jacket from the coat racket and shrugged it on. "Nagini is a nice name."

"I'll have a girl, not a pet," Feodor sputtered.

"I think you and your wife have different opinions then." Tom smiled inwardly at the fond look that returned in his best friend's eyes at the mention of his wife. Whatever problem they had had was over now. He knew that Feodor loved his wife to pieces and that the two of them couldn't sulk around each other for too long. And nine months  _was_  too long. And a new record. "Tell Evelyn I say hi. Give her a kiss from me."

"You know I won't."

Tom laughed. With a final small grin to the youngest Nott, he walked out of the manor.

"Hey!" Feodor called him from the entrance when he was close to the gate.

Rolling his eyes again, Tom turned around. "What now?"

"You can't disappear!"

 _You can't die_ , was what Feodor meant.

Tom just looked questioningly at him.

"Lucya will be born in less than two weeks, you idiot."

 _It's Lucya then._  "And?"

"And?! Her godfather should be there too."

"If this is your way of asking me-"

"-or maybe I should let Malfoy-"

"-my answer's of course yes."

 _Gotcha_ , said Feodor's smirk.

Snorting, Tom left.

.

* * *

.

Some things were bound to stay the same. In its ever-changing existence, the Room looked the same as the last time he had visited, hours ago. Objects towered on other objects, furniture, statues, priceless paintings. Jewels gleamed from every surface, cries of different hidden creatures echoed once in a while from remote corners of the massive room.

Anyone would get lost in this chaos, but not him. He knew what he was looking for and, most importantly, he knew where.

Take the right on the boar's fountain, surpass the old mirror, keep going until the bent bookcase, take the left on the big cabinet, there's the harp. Behind it, a wooden chest. In the drawer, a treasure.

On the other side of the room, under a gramophone, another.

Holding all he needed, Tom went back to what he presumed was the centre of the room and stood at a crossroad. He drew the circle on the floor around him and the objects laid at his feet. The lines were glowing green.

He exhaled.

It was going to hurt. He had read every book he had found while at Hogwarts, and some more years later, about the possibility of coming back. But for him there was none.

Redemption was out of his reach. He had surpassed the point of no return a long time ago... but it was worth it in the end, what he was going to do. Even if his love for Hermione Granger wasn't enough, at least there was a chance of freeing his soul in the process.

_Promise me. Promise me you won't kill anyone else._

He would kill no one else. He was going to meet what he had tried to escape all his life. Death.

"Here I am, take me, asshole," Tom said, staring at the green circle caging him. "I'm ready."

Spilling his blood on the floor with a silver knife, he began to chant.

What hurt first was his head. His temples started to throb mercilessly. It felt as if the very knife discarded at his feet was stabbing him from the inside. But he kept chanting and the memories rushed in, kicking him, screaming and accusing. He barely felt a perverted sneer take over his face at the memory of a girl lying dead in a bathroom.

* * *

_Yellow eyes stare back at her. At me. I curse everyone for what's happening. What's happened. Fuck, I didn't want it to happen. But it's not my fault. If the ugly girl is fucking dead, the fault is only hers. And good fucking riddance, I hated her. She was always looking at me as if she wanted to kiss me or eat me, always twirling her hair around her finger in class, always drooling over me. The Mudblood. As if I'd ever fuck a Mudblood, and one so repugnant at that. Stupid fucking Mudblood._

" _Fuck, fuck, fuck," I curse under my breath, eyes darting between my pet and her body. I throw glances at the door every few seconds._

_I cry. I hold her still warm body in my arms and try to revive her. I don't apologise. It's not my fault. Without those stupid spectacles she looks cute. No one will know, now that she's dead. I've stolen her chance to make real friends, to date a boy, to give her virginity to him, to have a family and kids._

_She's a Mudblood though. One unworthy witch less in a society ruled by pure-blood wizards. She was in for a tough future anyway. My pet has done her a favour. I'm going to use it._

_How do I do it? Her head's still held against my chest. I read it somewhere but I don't know if it will work. Maybe I can start the process now and finish it when I know more. Fuck, I need to know more._

_I Conjure a knife and press it into her palm. Blood gushes from the wound and flows down her wrist and arm in a dark red rivulet. It smells metallic and normal. It looks almost like mine._

_I'm touching the blood of a Mudblood. I know for sure that I won't die because of it. On the contrary, her surprisingly not dirty blood will save me. I should thank her but I don't. Her death means trouble._

_I command my pet to slither back to its home. I collect her blood in a vial. I clean all traces of it from her body, from me, from the floor. I clean her wound. I close her eyes. I smile._

* * *

_I'm kneeling on the soil of a dry field, within a circle that's glowing red. I'm hallucinating, I'm hurting, I'm breaking. Blood coats my lips and teeth. It fills my mouth and I retch. I swallow it down. I cry, I scream, I claw at my arms, my chest, my face, I'm blind and a waterfall of blood falls into my eyes. Something fights inside and it breaks me even more. And then I am lying naked on the soil, bathed in my blood, a dark fire raging around me. The diary pulses with life._

* * *

What hurt next was his heart. Shortening heartbeats grew heavier and slammed against his ribcage, each one separated by a length of time of silence- was it going to beat again? Is it the end? So soon? But no, the drums kept rolling loud in his ears and the sound was everything he could hear.

The were claws around his heart. The grip was tight. Someone was going to tear his organ out of his chest. Just like that, with a snap of fingers, someone who was more powerful than him was going to decide it was time for Tom Marvolo Riddle to die.

* * *

" _You're an abomination!"_

_I stare at the woman, looking hard at her lined face through eyes I know are not normal. I feel the red rage coursing through my veins, boiling in my chest._

" _You should have died with that whore of your mother! They should have let you die and not taken you in. I can see what you are, like her, a monster!"_

_The man spits in my face, his nose curled in disgust. His cheeks are two spots of red._

_It's like staring into a mirror._

_My grandfather doesn't utter a word. He appears almost sad. I don't care. I'm not here searching for a loving family._

" _Why the hell are you here?" my father asks, sneering. He's good at it, sneering. Makes our looks much more alike. I hate it. It makes me angry. "You want money, don't you? Well, you can forget about it-"_

_I pretend to be calm. "I want nothing from you but one thing."_

" _And what is it? Live here? Never, little bastard-"_

"Why? _" No need to elaborate._

" _Why!?" he laughs incredulously. "Why? The bitch tricked me with her- her poisons. She raped me."_

_I feel my face contorting into something I can't make out. My father can._

_He nods, his face scrunched up in revulsion. "Yes, that's what you are. The result of rape. Nothing more. I never wanted you, you weren't my responsibility. And look what she did. I left her and she abandoned you. The mad bitch. She didn't want you. Just looking at you makes me want to vomit-"_

"Crucio. _"_

_I take my sweet time. I make him bleed._

_His mother tries to stop me, tries to push my arm and redirect my wand, she screams and cries in my ears. But I can't distinguish one sentence from the other, the noise is lost to me while I make this poor excuse for a man suffer. I hate him from the pit of my gut._

_The woman's next. I hurl invisible knives at her chest. And then I cut her throat myself. Like a Muggle, I slide the blade across her neck, but not too deep. I want a slow end for her. I want to see her put a fight while Death slowly claims her rotten soul._

_The old man is standing there, leaning against the wall, looking at his family dying in their pools of blood. His vacant eyes are seeing but not really. He doesn't seem afraid._

_The green light strikes his chest._

" _D-Damn you."_

_The woman is looking at me, blinking back the mist veiling her vision, her hand pressing down on her wound. Blood spurts through her fingers. With a death rattle, her body goes limp._

Damn you _. I've been damned since birth. I killed my mother. I killed Myrtle. And now my father and grandparents._

_The smell of their deaths assaults my nostrils. It spreads throughout the manor._

_Blood stains my hands. I've never spilled so much blood and-_

_Blood, blood coating the expensive carpets, blood splattered on the walls, my sobs can do nothing, can't undo it, what I've done-_

_I've killed three Muggles, the only relatives I had, I couldn't accept it, can't, my mother raped him, he didn't love her, she didn't love me, she died to not raise the result of her assault. A bastard, half-bred, monster, rape._

_I clean everything._

_I'm stronger, more powerful, I won't die, won't love, won't hate._

_Fuck you, I don't need your love, only your blood, and in heaven or in hell I won't see you again._

* * *

_It's only another piece. I'll stop after this, I swear._

_Two is good, it's a nice number._

_I drink his blood and fight the urge to vomit. I feel sick. I'm sick._

_I'm in the burned field. The fight inside is raging again, telling me to stop. I continue._

_It hurts so bad I scream and cry._

_A string is being pulled until it breaks and I bleed inside._

_I want the pain to end. I want it again. Break me, shatter me, destroy me so He won't find me._

_Hurt me, hurt me bad, I want to know how much it can hurt, I want to know how powerful I'll become._

_The piece of my soul trapped in the ring cries, begs me to release him, but I can't even if I want. It's impossible now, I can't go back._

* * *

Instead of mending, his soul cracked. It hurt so much he wished he could die.

His pulse rate decelerated. He was burning, his skin hitched and he needed to take it off. Something was torturing his back, stabbing and scratching like a beast. There was a mask clinging to his face, made of skin and muscles that were suffocating him. He felt confined, darkness was pressing in on him from everywhere, stealing air from his lungs. Were they working? Was he still alive?

Claustrophobia seized him. He tried to claw off his face. The stench of blood hit his nostrils.

"KILL ME!"

He was roaring. The sounds he forced out of his throat were inhuman. He covered his ears and screamed more.

"KILL ME ALREADY!"

Cold hands were crushing his skull.

* * *

_The wind's howling. It lashes the bare trees._

_It's dark. It's cold._

_It's the kind of place where I'd hide a treasure: forgotten, scary to the eyes of the Muggles, powerfully warded against the less skilled wizards. I know only a few people who might step in here, find what they're looking for, and survive the consequences._

_I freeze the wind. I mute nature._

_The kid's hiding somewhere behind bushes of thorns. I know it._

_I walk up to the tree._

_Memories float around the forest, unheard whispers from long ago. They are the impression of an evil act, an act so wicked that it still echoes around me._

_The shadow of the past remains, bound to do so in eternity. The ghosts are here but not here. They will meet again, but not today. It's not winter yet._

_I know because I asked. In a moment of weakness, Helena told me the whole truth. She was hoping that the confession would bring her a sort of redemption and put her out of her misery. Kill her soul or save it. Put an end to her disembodied existence._

_The fool._

_The only obstacle between her chains and the peaceful end she craves is herself. And her attachment to this place._

_I touch the tree._

" _You're what's keeping them here," I whisper. My fingers run over the smooth white wood. Magic and life thrum under my hand. "You've damned them to haunt here for eternity. You've cursed them to return, every year on the same day. As punishment. For profaning this place with murder."_

_I smile._

" _I'm going to do worse than that. And you won't have a ghost to condemn. I'll defile the object you guard with dark magic. I'll draw blood in your once sacred place. I'll lay a sacrifice at your feet, cut it up, and serve myself. While your deity will die in this corrupt world, I'll build another and live for ever."_

_I break the wards and collect what's inside the tree._

_No artefact can compare in power and beauty. And yet it's useless to me. I don't need a diadem to have knowledge. But I have other uses for it._

"Iulian!"

_He stays where he is._

"Iulian! Ku je?"

_He still stays. Smart kid. Little coward._

"Më falni, zotëri, e keni parë djalin tim-"

" _I don't understand you, woman." I push forwards all the disgust I feel for her race._

_She's young, her bosom and hips look soft, like those of a warm mother. Her long auburn hair looks bright even in the dark._

_I hesitate. I can turn my back on her and go away, act as if I've never seen her, the perfect sacrifice for the last partition of my soul._

_But she's being served to me on a silver plate._

Will you really deprive a little boy of his mother? _, the familiar deep voice of Remus Lupin asks._ Disappoint me _, he says._ Kill again, lose yourself on the way for your stupid power, lose yourself and lose her. Hurt them, hurt yourself, you'll hurt her.

Fuck you _, I say._

You're already fucking yourself, kid.

_I graze my fingers down the rosy cheek of this woman and she trembles under my touch._

_I murmur in her ear, kiss her temple with the just uttered promise, and step back._

_I kill her quickly, true to my promise._

_I collect her blood._

_I stand over her sprawled body for a moment, studying her face so I can remember it when the time to hurt and beg for forgiveness will come. Because it will. Even if I'm going to live forever, possess all the knowledge and the power of the world, such a time will knock at my door and I'll kneel and plead, remembering each face, each spell._

_I walk away, leaving her body to the returning black crows._

* * *

_This is the last time, I swear. This is the last._

_Just one more tear, grant me eternity. I want to stare in my enemy's eyes and think, go ahead, kill me, give me an excuse to make you bleed and fuel my addiction._

_The scent of blood makes me feel ill and whole, I can depend on it, if my forever requires it._

_Just one more time, I swear._

" _I swear," I sob, cutting my palms. I rub my blood on the floor, over the lines of the damned circle. It glows red, the colour darker than the last time._

_I fill my mouth with the blood of an innocent._

_I feel a connection within me with little Iulian. Youthful one._

_I stole his youth, his innocence. He'll have a hollow childhood, a drunken father, a dark future. He'll grow up to be like me. He'll be an invisible boy. His need for revenge will devour him until his first kill._

_That's how it's been for me. It started with the death of my mother. It continued with a hollow childhood in an orphanage. I lived for eleven years as an invisible boy. At school, they beat me. At school, I tortured them back. At school, I learned how to use people and started to plan my revenge. I lusted after it until my first kill. That sated me. That was only the beginning._

_I recite the spells._

_I hurt._

_It's her birthday today. I should be with her, hold her in my arms, let her light blind me and soothe my broken soul. I should look at her while she blows out twenty-five candles._

_My soul stretches and a piece is taken._

_I scream and cry and roar and curse my father. I curse my mother._

_I bleed and lose another piece of myself. My soul lives and I die._

* * *

What's one more death anyway?

Red sparks were flying throughout the room, flames encircling him, rising high over his kneeling body. He burned and burned.

_Promise me! Promise me you won't kill anyone else!_

"I'm so fucking sorry." He had his fingers buried in his hair, his nails piercing through the skin. He was rocking back and forth, tears streaking his cheeks. Death wasn't coming fast enough. "God, I'm so sorry."

Dying should have been easier.

But it was. It  _was_  easy.

He realised it in a moment of lucidity.

He had thought that it would be difficult, but the emotion he needed was there, writhing under his skin.

He called and it rushed towards him.

It was like summoning water to extinguish fire. The tide of regret ploughed into the circle and swallowed him whole.

"At last," he breathed.

.

* * *

.

Back in London, thunders started to rumble in the inky sky and Hermione's eyes snapped open. Sitting up and blinking back sudden tears, she rubbed her chest.

Her heart was aching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but intense. Or so I hope.
> 
> One more part to go. Do you want an epilogue or prefer an open ending? I have an epilogue already written, but I personally prefer open-ended stories. But with this epilogue, the story would come full circle. I love full circles too. Merlin, this is so difficult!
> 
> I hope that Albanian readers won't hate me. If I've made any mistake, please let me know!
> 
> Your reviews. God, your reviews... keep 'em coming (sorry, just joking!). But really, thank you so much! I'm so happy you like this story, no matter how fucked up Tom is. And to know that you've been in all the way... thank you!


	7. Part 7

 

Death.

Not cold.

Not warm.

As the soul exists and can't cease to exist, Death brings it into another state of being. Another dimension.

Contrary to popular belief, Death doesn't kill what's contained in the shell that humans call 'body'; what happens is that It helps the soul to leave the shell and either return to the light or prepare for a new one.

Sometimes, though, oddities happen. Sometimes souls remain trapped between two states of being. Between the beyond and the down-here. These souls are the screams heard when the sun becomes colder and the trees are bare, when the distance between the here and the in-between thins. The distance is impossible to discern where two realities coexist.

In castles, ancient forests, the bottom of a dark lake: souls turn these places into their home. Death never reaches them there... when souls don't want to be found. When they don't want to leave.

Attachment is harmful to souls.

That's what life is about: learning.

Ghosts haven't learned yet. Humans walking on Earth haven't either.

But, once in a while, as whiles go in Death's perception, something really rare happens. Something beyond odd and utterly inexplicable, even in Death's omniscient mind.

Speechless, Death stares at the souls vacating their shells. He stares as they are led to an unknown dimension by an unknown force.

This force is severe, cold, punishing. Despite feeling it from a distance, It doesn't understand it.

When this happens, It tries to claim those souls for itself, but to no avail. Its hands can never touch them, its voice can never be heard in the mist cloaking them.

And the souls disappear behind a white candid fog.

 _Where do they go? To do what?_  Death always asks, but no one bothers to answer.

And now it's one of those moments.

"Hey boy!" Death yells to his back, but the soul is already walking away, pulled by that unknown and powerful force. A cloak of fog is draped over his shoulders and trails behind him, rising a curtain of familiar white dust. "No, boy, don't go. DON'T GO! You'll never-"

White. More white.

The fog closes behind the soul. Death's arms fall by its side.

"-come back," It finishes in a whisper to the silence.

.

* * *

.

Death.

Not cold.

Not warm.

It was perfect.

Tom opened his eyes and found candid fog surrounding him. But it didn't feel confining- he knew that whatever was behind it was space and blissful  _absence_. To reach it he just had to... Yes, he had to move. Walk.

One soundless step. Another.

He knew this was the way.

He felt pleasantly light. If he hadn't known that broken souls couldn't go very far in the beyond, he might have believed himself in heaven.

Green lamps flecked with gold started dotting the empty space. With each step taken, more lamps popped from thin air, if of air Tom could speak. Or think. Even though doubts flashed into his mind, he felt no worry pressing down on his chest.

Why overthink and question what he was seeing? It was so simple. It had always been so damn simple. Everything was and nothing wasn't.

And in this moment, in this strange dimension, he was.

"I am and nothing can harm me," he said. His voice sounded clear and smooth. "I'm already dead anyway."

"You've always been smarter than the others."

A voice came from somewhere in front of him. The voice of a woman.

"Of course I'm smarter," Tom scoffed.

He stalked ahead and the fog dissipated.

Tables followed lamps, shelves followed books, a tiled floor followed rows of tall bookcases. From the front to the distant back, a library came into view.

Had he been able to breathe, air would have been stolen from his lungs for the sight was magnificent, heartening, intimidating.

He closed his eyes and breathed. He reopened them and gasped.

The sight stretching before him made him feel sad and happy and in awe. It brought back memories of evenings and entire nights spent in remote corners, sitting under a window with a pile of books by his side, his nose buried in a heavy tome, something difficult and inappropriate for any boy of his age but him.

"And modest too." Her Scottish accent was thick, her voice soft and knowing.

She was walking next to him, dressed in an elegant black gown, the hem of her long skirt touching the floor and making no sound. A cryptic smile was painted on her lips.

"You're wondering why I'm here," she said, her smile seeping in her melodious voice. "Why this old woman and not someone close to you. Like your mother. Or your ancestor."

She turned her head to raise an elegantly shaped eyebrow at him. "You  _are_  Salazar's heir, after all."

"You don't look old," was what Tom said.

She didn't look young, but her skin was porcelain-smooth and graced by thin lines that did nothing to lessen her beauty.

Giving no sign that she had heard him, she went one, "But I am here, Tom, and I'll tell you why. You may have never seen me, but I've followed you since your first step into my castle. I always look out for the students, especially the young, but you... I knew I had to keep both my vigilant eyes on you."

She stopped walking to lean against a bookshelf. Slightly lifting her chin, she looked at Tom in the eyes. "So shy and isolated... there was a darkness within you I hoped to never see unveiled."

Tom kept silent, even if he had never known, never imagined it.

"But what could I have done? I did nothing when you were a child, trusting you would grow strong against the seduction of darkness. Almost all of us had faith you would see reason and become immune to it, as Salazar once did. But... we were mistaken."

Sighing, the woman sat down at the table and Tom followed her lead, claiming the chair next to her.

She clasped her hands in front of her. "Godric did warn us against doing nothing when you were a child, but- you were just that, a child. I understood our mistake the day you discovered your bloodline. And when you killed Myrtle, it was too late. We could do nothing. I could do nothing. I'm not alive and not a ghost. You have to understand, from where we are, what we can do is reach out a hand and save you from peril, offer you a little help... But you weren't looking for saving, Tom."

He lowered his head, unblinking eyes staring at the wooden surface of the table. It was so surreal. Being dead, or whatever he was at this point, sitting at a table with one of the Founders, talking about all the wrong choices he had made.

"But it changed, didn't it?" Rowena asked. She cupped his cheeks and gently lifted his head. Her eyes were dark and never straying from him. "When you started hurting, it changed. You wanted salvation and I gave it to you."

Tom's eyes widened and, for the first time since he had come in here, he felt uncomfortable. It started with a lump in his throat. "What did you give me?"

Rowena inclined her head, the corners of her lips curling upwards – and she looked younger and alive.

"The meeting of two souls."

Because it had been the only way for Rowena to help him. The only way for him to see beyond the madness and the thirst for power.

On a rainy afternoon, the Founders had joined their magic to guide two broken hearts together, in the hope that the light of one could heal the darkness of the other.

"Why help me?" Tom asked after minutes, or the equivalent of a short period of time spent in silence, thinking about the past, remembering the day he had first met Hermione, the day he had first killed another human, the day he had killed two. "You knew I asked Helena about your diadem. You knew what I wanted to do with it. And you still helped me. Why?"

"Because you were an orphan and I pitied you."

He didn't know what to answer. She had felt pity for him. No one liked to be pitied. Especially him. Especially by strangers.

"I pity many people, Tom," Rowena said as if she had heard his thoughts.

"How could you forgive her?"

Rowena lowered her gaze, the note of a nameless feeling entering her eyes. "You will understand when you are a father. There's nothing you can't forgive a son or a daughter. Nothing. Not even their hatred for you. Not even their knife in your guts. She could have betrayed me a hundred times and I still would have forgiven her. I will always forgive her. Always."

Such love, such goodness- how could it exist? Indeed Tom couldn't understand it. Because he was on the side of the child, of the thief, of the murderer, not of the parent.

"Helena never regretted stealing the diadem. In another life, in another scenario, she would do it again, only because she thinks she's entitled to the universe's knowledge still. And unlike William, who drags his sins by heavy chains, Helena... feels no remorse over my death or even hers. What she feels now is pain for her soul. She's trapped on Earth, trapped between the home I helped build and the damned place where her life was taken- until the day she will see that her dark heart is what is keeping her here. When that day will come, if it will... the deity of the tree will release their souls from the curse."

"So, the Bloody Baron..." Tom didn't hesitate but purposefully let the words hang in the air. He had always thought the Bloody Baron evil, or mad, but this-

"Had his ghost not been bound to Helena's, yes. He would be free. They forgave him a long time ago. He has shown and felt pure, uncontaminated guilt. But his curse involves Helena and she's not ready."

 _And never will be_ , Rowena seemed to fear.

Was this the Higher law? Was it just to let a man suffer because a woman couldn't see past the outline of her skin, past her pain and greed? Was it just that a soul had to live as a ghost without knowing that he could be free, that there  _was_  a light, that the Gods had forgiven him a long time ago?

"Do you pity him, Tom?" Rowena asked, dropping the question mark in that way that only old and wise people could do.

Tom immediately shook his head, "No. He killed your daughter."

"As you killed a mother."

"He's a murderer and he was forgiven."

"As you can be."

"No one can forgive a murder." He was astonished by the conviction held in his own words.

Rowena cocked her head, "Who are you to judge what can be forgiven and what not?"

"You forget I'm the murderer here. I'm the judged."

"I forget nothing, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Not your sins, not your pleas for forgiveness."

Tom let out a loud, sarcastic laughter and raised his bare wrists, shaking them in front of her face. "I have no chains, I don't flagellate my back, and I can assure you I don't keep a cilice under my clothes in penance. How can I be forgiven?"

Rowena sighed. "Who's the one forgetting things now? Don't you remember what you've just done? Why you are here?"

"Because I wanted to die," Tom said tightly. "I killed myself."

"No," Rowena snapped. She reached across the corner of table separating them and seized his hand with unexpected force. "It's because you wanted to live. But you couldn't do it with a damaged soul. You are here because you wanted to mend your soul and have an opportunity to go beyond; because more than Death, you're scared of remaining trapped in a dimension you've never read about in your books as a soulless creature that doesn't belong anywhere- because you are scared of the unknown, because you wanted to remain on the safe side rather than becoming nothing-"

Tom opened his mouth to deny it, but Rowena silenced him with a glare and finished, "but most importantly, it's because you wanted to save the people you love from  _yourself_."

Tom closed his eyes.

Once, he had believed Hermione was his light, the beacon directing him when he found himself surrounded by the darkness of his choices. He had believed he could use her goodness, suck it from her again and again, giving for granted her presence, giving for granted that his thirst for power and his love for her could coexist. They couldn't.

Yes, he had been scared of what he could become with a damaged soul; yes, he had been scared of what he never read about in the books: no one knew what happened to a split soul if, somehow, all the containers were destroyed. No one knew where what remained of the soul went.

But he  _had_  wanted to save Hermione. And Feodor. And Evelyn. And their unborn daughter. And Remus.

Save them from himself. Die so they could live. Die so he could cease to be a threat for them and everyone else. Die... and cease to be.

He may have been scared of the unknown, but the truth was that once it had happened, once his damaged soul had left his shell, he stopped caring. He didn't care if the spell had worked, mending his soul, and, surprisingly, in case it hadn't, he didn't care if what remained of him was going somewhere with no exit door. Because it had been worth it.

It was worth it.

"But you know where you are."

He was in a library. He was in a temple of almost infinite knowledge.

And he was feeling whole.

"This doesn't look like hell," he demurred, leaning back in the chair.

"That's because you aren't in hell, you stubborn child," Rowena said, pushing back her chair to rise. She was a small woman but, standing, she seemed to tower over him. She made him feel like a meaningless creature, undeserving of her attention and worries. Undeserving even of her pity.

Tom shifted his gaze from her face to the library extending behind her. Floor and bookcases were now soaked in red and purples, a blazing sunset slanting through the tall windows while the light of the lamps subtly intensified. Soon the wooden surfaces would be set aglow and the room would appear like an edgeless dark city. Dark like the nights he had spent here as a child, dark as the thoughts and dreams he had recalled while sitting at his remote favourite table. The dark library had been his favourite home.

Now his home was a pair of dark eyes and a mass of unruly curls and nothing else.

"I'm not-" Tom dragged his gaze back to Rowena's. He cleared his throat. "I'm not dead. Not really."

Rowena bent slightly, hands on knees, and squinted at him through a smile, like a parent with a child. "You have the chance to make amends with those you've wronged with your foolish attempts at power. But there's always a choice."

Her words were harsh, but there was no condemnation in her voice, only warmth and an invitation.

He wanted to go back. With all his being he wanted to go back to his lover, his friends, to keep his promise to Feodor and see his god-daughter grow up. But at the same time he was a coward. He didn't want to face his crimes again. To let them go was one thing, but to be forced to remember and repent for them for the rest of his life was another.

By some kind of miracle his soul may be whole, but his conscience, his hands... they were stained with the deaths of many people- so many.

"And so are the hands that saved you."

" _What?_ " Tom shot up so fast the chair fell back. "What are you saying?"

Rowena straightened her spine and looked up at him with a sad smile.

"I-I thought I saved myself," he stuttered, his eyes frantically searching hers. "The spell- it mended my soul. I'm whole, I-"

"Oh, my boy." Rowena took his face in her hands, her thumbs rubbing his cheeks. Her skin was warm. He was starting to feel cold.

"No." Her voice was a hoarse whisper. Twin tears trickled down her cheeks. "Your soul was in too much pain. The spell mended, but your soul- was still bleeding, it was- cracked-"

Was. No.

_No No No_

"No, you are mistaken-" Tom tried to turn his head and shake Rowena's hands off of him, but she held on.

He couldn't- didn't believe it. She wouldn't- No.

Tom tried to shake his head again and this time Rowena forcibly made him look at her.

"It was a sacrifice that healed your soul, Tom," she said, tears spilling from her eyes. "Tonight, she followed you. To save you."

Gulping in air that didn't exist, he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to hold back the tears. He opened his mouth, intending to speak calmly, but after various attempts, all he managed to ask was a broken, "Why?"

Rowena waited for him to open his eyes and look at her. She gently grasped his hand and held it between them.

"Because," she breathed, "love draws the best and the worst out of us for it does not know right and wrong."

"I have to go back."

"Only if you want to."

"And if I don't?"

"You can go on." She paused. "But in due time you'll be asked to go back again in a new shell. You may repent and be forgiven, but your soul still carries the sins of this life. And there are debts to be paid. It's what happens to those who haven't learned yet."

"Learned what?"

Rowena let go of his hand and smiled. "That's not for me to say."

Tom blinked when his sight started to blur. Rowena was becoming a confused figure, near and distant. He blinked again.

"Rowena-" he called, but his voice sounded far away.

"I will watch over you, Tom."

.

* * *

.

When Tom came back, cold welcomed his body. It took him a while to get reacquainted with the sensation of real air on his skin, an uncertain amount of time to adjust to the feeling of the snow beneath and around him. Snow?

Tom begrudgingly let consciousness take over in his fogged mind. Other sensations rushed in. The snow began to feel colder, his clothes were wet, under his head was a pillow, in his nostrils the smell of blood.

His eyes fluttered open.

He wasn't in the castle.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the snow was red. On the other side too.

Someone was crying next to him. He became aware of their sobs and wondered why he hadn't heard them sooner. They were loud and so close to his ear. A hand was on his chest, concealed by his robes. It felt wet. He could see the tip of their fingers. They were red. Blood was crusted under the fingernails.

"Hermione?"

His voice came out as a hoarse croak.

The hand on his chest and the body sitting next to him stilled. A sharp intake of breath resonated in his ears.

" _T-Tom?_ "

With a grunt, he tried to push himself to sit up, but his limbs didn't want to collaborate. After several seconds of failures, Hermione shook herself from her daze and helped him.

He was in the forest. It was morning.

Her hands limp on her lap, her damp coat askew on her shoulders, Hermione was peering into his face, waiting for him to speak, but his eyes were staring blankly at what lay past her shoulder.

At the foot of an old white tree was the silhouette of a body.

Red blood stained the snow.

"What have you done?" Tom murmured.

Black blood flooded from the trunk of the tree.

Hermione sobbed but didn't answer.

He knew what she had done.

Tom forced himself to look at Hermione. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her lips chapped and bitten. Her hair fell on her chest in weak curls.

_Love draws the best and the worst out of us for it does not know right and wrong._

Tom sat on his knees and silently pulled Hermione in his arms. He buried his nose in her neck, his fingers in her hair. He inhaled her scent. This was home.

"You," Hermione sniffed, burrowing against his chest, "you stupid liar."

Tom's arms tightened around her shaking frame. He whispered in her ear, sweet nothings to soothe her, while his eyes darted between the body lying feet away from them, the fragile back he was holding on to, and the white, dying, damned tree.

He resolved it didn't matter any more.

Hermione's arms slipped around his back. She poured all her despair and pleas for all the things he couldn't give her in their hug. His heart constricted at her sorrow, but he could do nothing.

With a gust of wind, a black bird landed on the snow.

A single tear rolled off Tom's cheek.  _It didn't matter any more._

Tom held Hermione as close as possible, cradling her against him with the only promises he could make. He kissed the top of her head.

"I love you," he said. "I love you, Hermione."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end.
> 
> But it seems that everyone agrees on having an epilogue, so of course I can't disappoint you. I'll post the epilogue tomorrow (I wanted to post it now but changed my mind in case someone reads it before this seventh part).
> 
> I'm heartened by your reviews for part 6 and I'm so glad you liked it! I admit I was a bit scared to share my take on the ritual to create a Horcrux considering that not even Rowling has revealed it yet. What is known is that it's something so terrible and evil that hearing it described will stimulate your gag reflex. I won't lie, Tom eating human flesh was the first image conjured by my mind, but then I decided against it. But I believe blood is equally disgusting.
> 
> Anyway, again, I can't thank you enough for all the positive reviews! I send virtual hugs to you all!
> 
> And I won't say anything about this chapter. I'll only ask: reaction to this finale?
> 
> EDIT: I've decided to post the Epilogue on Thursday instead of this evening because I realised that people are still reading this chapter and probably will read tomorrow as well, so sending notifications now for part 8 might be confusing. I apologise for this sudden change of plans! To make it up to you I've added an extra paragraph to the epilogue (:


	8. Epilogue

 

September 19th, 2005

When Tom walked out of the gilded fireplace, he stepped aside for the next visitor to land and took a moment to dust off his pristine black robes. He swiftly combed his fingers through his hair, pushing back the curls falling on his forehead, and, while visitor after visitor arrived, he spent a few more seconds straightening the sleeves of his coat- when in truth he was just buying time to adjust to the presence of hundreds of people packed in one hall, and one underground at that.

The place was immense, but today visitors and employees occupied it at once - while on any other working day they would have found themselves in offices distributed throughout ten vast levels. Therefore the crowd was making him slightly nervous, as much as he hated that word.

Nervous. Tom Riddle  _wasn't_  nervous. Or anxious. Or weak. But, Salazar damn him, he was feeling like a fish out of water at the moment, making his way through the audience towards the other side of the Atrium.

During the traverse, flashes of cameras blinded him and elbows seemed to aim for his ribs, but in the end, reached the right wall near the front, he made it.

"You made it," a voice chuckled in his ear, accompanied by a friendly pat on the shoulder.

Tom didn't need to turn around to see Feodor grinning down at him, so he simply grunted something intelligible and shoved his hands in his pockets, waiting. And while he waited, he let his eyes roam over the Atrium.

From here the situation didn't look so bad. Actually, there wasn't even the hustle and bustle of the busiest mornings since most of the presents were gathered in front of a very official-looking stage, talking among themselves or taking photos. Indeed the journalists were now pointing at something on the left side of the massive room, where officers from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were lined- and there was a quite sombre air around them.

Tom followed the direction of the flashes and promptly rolled his eyes. Leave it to the photographers to catch the bored face of Auror Potter and ignore the Minister, who was just walking onto the stage, positively glowing.

"You're late."

Tom felt her presence at his side before even hearing her, but the flashes whirling from one side of the Atrium to the other immediately alerted every one of the appearance of Hermione Granger. He had to fist his hands not to draw out his wand and Vanish the blasted cameras when one particular flash made her jump.

"I'm never late," Tom said through his teeth, glaring in the photographers' general direction. Fortunately, the Minister chose that exact moment to invite the crowd to quiet down.

Tom quickly offered Hermione a smile before turning his attention on the stage.

"Good evening everyone," Fudge greeted the audience with his mellow voice. Quills began furiously scribbling and a couple of flashes went off again. "Good evening! Now, it seems we are making of these not-so-little gatherings an almost monthly occurrence, but given your lively participation- I believe our headquarters have never hosted so many people before! - you must know that, today!, we have a very important announcement to make-"

"Calm down, Granger," Tom told Hermione with a light nudge, "and leave your hair alone."

Caught with one hand patting her head, Hermione grimaced up at him. She whimpered softly, "It looks horrible."

"No, it doesn't, but it will if you keep torturing it."

She sighed.

"-a lot of work from our Research Department, after the introduction of the new laws regarding the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, our Ministry is ready to officially break those parameters that  _obscured_ , deprived of  _many_  rights, and at times even  _persecuted_  a minority of our society-"

Tom blinked at the Minister for Magic, wondering when the man had managed to put his prejudices aside to come up with such a progressive speech, and other wizards seemed to think the same if the way they were gaping at Fudge or muttering under their breaths was anything to go by. Rita Skeeter looked undoubtedly confused, with her mouth hanging open and her quill immobile over a piece of parchment- though she shook her head a second later and proceeded to write down what, Tom knew, would be the next front page of the Daily Prophet, so Ministry-approved rubbish.

He narrowed his eyes. This speech stank. Of course it did.

"I hope you didn't leave any trace, Granger," he murmured in Hermione's ear. "Was it an  _Imperio_  or a Memory Spell?"

Hermione shot him a dirty look but two red spots flushed her cheeks.

"I used neither," she said conspiratorially, her eyes glued on the stage, where the Minister was now walking up and down, animatedly gesticulating to the crowd. "I just happen to have the talent to make people see what's right and wrong for themselves, you know, help change their perspective-"

Hermione took a quick glance at Tom before hastily turning her eyes in front of her.

"That, and I had a vial of Felix Felicis on me this morning." She bit her lip. "I made him read my speech and he found it brilliant."

Tom laughed. "You clever, cunning witch."

"I didn't trick him or anything," she said indignantly. Tom had to keep himself from laughing harder at the face she was making. "I just- needed a bit of encouragement."

Tom smiled to the back of her head before his attention was dragged back on the Minister.

"So," Fudge was saying, "I, as representative of the Ministry of Magic, announce the institution of the new Wolfsbane Potion in the list of freely accessible potions recorded at the Ministry, and the consequential distribution of said potion by St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and the major health institutes of Britain, to all the wizards affected by lycanthropy registered in the Werewolf Register – of our Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

A roar of applause broke out. There were whistles here and there, but they were for the major part positive. Standing next to Harry Potter, Nymphadora Lupin was cheering louder than everyone. Not so far from Tom, Lucius Malfoy was scowling, gripping the head of his infamous cane so hard his knuckles were whiter than his hair, and, like him, his wife Narcissa was staring down her aristocratic nose at everyone.

"Alright, alright!," Fudge chuckled, clearing his throat. It took a few more minutes for the excitement to die down, but the Minister didn't seem to mind. "I said my part, but since I'm sure you have many questions, I now invite the brilliant minds that have joined forces to improve the Wolfsbane Potion to come here – Professors Snape and Longbottom, Mr Lupin, and Miss Granger. Thank you!"

"Here I go." Hermione nodded to herself and inhaled deeply.

Gently squeezing her shoulder, Tom genuinely smiled, his nervousness gone. It had dissipated the moment he saw a familiar spark enter her eye.

And as he watched her go, back straight and chin high with confidence, in his chest hope started rising again.

.

* * *

.

"Oh, Arthur, for Merlin's sake!"

"Just one moment, Molly!" His tongue trapped between his teeth, Mr Weasley kept hitting random buttons on the Muggle camera placed on the wobbly tripod. All the guests had been holding their breaths for minutes now.

"Maybe you should help him, Richard," Helena suggested, but Mr Weasley finally clapped his hands and emerged from his- whatever work he had been doing.

"All done!" he exclaimed, puffing his chest with pride, "now we just have to-"

"Arthur!"

"Mr Weasley!"

Tom mentally shook his head when the Weasley patriarch sprinted towards them to stand between his wife and his daughter.

The flash went off half a moment later. And, like an idiot, Tom missed it.

With the excuse of checking the photo, Tom was the first to stand and get away from the merry group. The high level of excitement was starting to bother him, but, like the perfect gentleman everyone thought he was, he just ignored it and let his smile widen with each passing hour.

"It turned out nice."

A full beer bottle in hand, Remus stepped closer, peering at the photo. "Unmoving. But nice."

Tom nodded and unscrewed the camera from the tripod. He zoomed in.

There they were, huddled together in the living room of the Grangers, smiling from ear to ear, looking at the camera but somehow still managing to keep their attention on the young woman sitting in the centre of the picture.

Hair arranged in a simple braid, stray curls framing her heart-shaped face, a green sweater paired with dark-blue jeans, Hermione was smiling the brightest. It was her first beautiful smile in months. It was contagious. So contagious that the black-haired young man sitting by her side on the couch had felt the warmth of that smile and turned his head to witness the real thing.

"Don't be embarrassed, I did the same in almost all my wedding photos," Remus told him.

 _I'm not embarrassed_ , Tom thought, sparing Remus a glance.  _And your wife's fourteen years younger than you, you were probably checking if she was still there._

The man just raised an eyebrow before looking back at the photo.

On Hermione's other side, Richard and Helena Granger smiled proudly, she with her hand on her daughter's lap, he with his arm around the two women.

Around the couch were their friends: the Weasleys, minus Charlie, Bill and Fleur, the Lupins, the Potters, the Notts, Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, Neville Longbottom, Rubeus Hagrid, Minerva McGonagall, and, surprisingly, Severus Snape. The last was even showing off one of his rare tight-lipped smiles.

At Hermione's feet, sitting on the thick carpet with their legs outstretched, a sleepy Crookshanks between them, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley were grinning.

The famous Trio, always together. Inseparable. Even after an internal crisis, things within their exclusive group were bound to righten themselves, always. The three of them would always be best friends. End of the discussion.

And they had discussed it, Tom remembered grimly. He had started it. Hermione had been inflexible: no matter how dim-witted and blind he could be, Ronald Weasley was her best friend.

That didn't mean Tom had to like it. In fact, he didn't.

Coincidentally, the morning after their 'discussion', all the jerseys of Potter and Weasley had vanished from Hermione's wardrobe. Coincidentally, a few had been saved and turned from red to emerald green.

Coincidentally, Tom's whole wardrobe had turned red that same evening. Gryffindors could be very vindictive.

Not able to remove the Charm, much to his consternation, he had had to give up and use a nice, selected breakfast in bed, coupled with a bunch of flowers and apologies, to ask Hermione to reverse the spell. The bitch had let him simmer for a few days more before granting his request.

In short, now not only Tom had to endure the presence of Potter and Weasley, he also had to suffer through their weekly little gatherings- and the weekends, and the birthdays, and the weddings, because apparently there was always a Weasley marrying. And he had to do all of this with a smile plastered across his face. Even babysitting Lucya sounded better than that – sounded, because he had never done it, preferring to let Hermione handle the little screaming bundle.

Speaking about his goddaughter-

"Here," Feodor said, thrusting the little girl in Tom's arms. "Don't let her down. Hagrid is going to sing in moments, if you know what I mean."

Indeed the half-giant was in a corner of the room with Tonks and Ron and, by the way he was laughing and gabbling away, it seemed he had already had a few too many.

Tom sighed at the retreating back of Feodor, knowing his wife was somewhere in the house, possibly Hermione's old room, waiting. Lucky bastard.

"Someone's been neglected, it seems," Remus smirked, folding his arms over his chest.

Giggling, Lucya leaned over to catch a balloon floating nearby, but Tom sent it flying out of her reach with half a thought and, much to the child's dismay, he readjusted her on his hip. He had seen how the little creature loved dragging the few teeth she had on the latex and, even if he liked to see her happy face whenever she made those irritating sounds, he didn't like the idea of germs in her mouth at all.

"Hermione is busy these days," Tom said, turning around for Lucya to lose sight of the bloody balloons. The sight of Sirius Black barking at Teddy Lupin wasn't much better but it had to do.

"She's succeeded where many others failed," Remus commented, leaning on the back of the couch. "You must be proud of her."

"She has," Tom convened, taking a sip of water. Remus frowned, so he hastily added, "I'm proud of what she's doing at the Ministry-"

"Tom-"

"This is a good night, Remus," Tom cut him short, "so, please, don't."

Remus turned his head slightly to see Hermione there, standing on the other side of the room, talking with her parents. He spoke anyway. "She's not talking to me, not like- before. I can't read her, I don't want to. Just tell me she's fine."

Tom bit the inside of his cheek. Caving, he looked Remus in the eyes.

"She will be," he said. And just like that, all the bad thoughts he had banned from his mind returned at once. He returned to feel just like the day before. And the day before that. All the hope he had felt growing while at the Ministry- gone. A familiar weight settled on his chest.

Remus sensed the shift in the air. "I'm sorry," he said.

Tom wordlessly passed him Lucya, who was starting to nod off, and poured himself a glass of wine.

He knocked back the drink.

Honestly, he wasn't even angry. He was just tired.

So damn tired.

"You can't give up now."

It wasn't Remus. The werewolf and Lucya were now on the couch, the latter lying in Lily's lap, sleeping peacefully with her mouth ajar.

Exhaling, he looked up at his former Potions teacher. "Why?" he inquired.

Snape regarded him as if Tom were as stupid as he had just sounded. "Because I don't remember her giving up on you months ago."

So Snape knew.

"So it's true," Tom said. "You do have a soft spot for Gryffindors."

The other rolled his eyes. "Lupin told me."

"I thought you two weren't friends."

"Not that it's any of your business, but we are now."

"Good."

"Don't let that Gryffindorish hope of yours die, Riddle. She's doing better. I saw it."

"How do you know?"

"Not to belittle your pathetic role in your boring life as a couple, but I've known her longer than you. I taught her and worked with her. So do yourself a favour, pay heed to what I tell you."

"But I do, Professor," Tom faintly smiled, earning himself a glare.

"She's doing better," Severus said again, his obsidian eyes studying Hermione, who was now chatting with Minerva. "I know you saw it too, earlier at the Ministry."

He had. Of course he had.

Tom and Severus changed the subject then, broaching safer topics, like Hogwarts and a possible retirement for Dumbledore, and the tension around them faded.

And it happened again.

One moment she was distant, the other she was present. One moment she was laughing at a joke Sirius was telling, the other she was  _really_  laughing, doubling over and holding her sides, then throwing her head back and howling with Harry and Ginny, her arms thrown around their shoulders.

Tom didn't care if it was because of the company or the music. It had happened again.

It was like the first time he had seen her laugh for real. Her smile lit up all her face, warmed her eyes into molten chocolate, made her skin glow like a fairy in the darkness. The darker it was, the brighter she glowed.

And that moment, that day, that memory, was overshadowed by joy. And even if it would come back, haunt her until she either snapped or confronted it, it was enough for him.

The memory was her darkness. She could glow and spell it all away – the memory, her nightmares, her silences...

They had never talked about it.

He had never asked.

Sometimes he heard her crying in her sleep and at times she woke up with a scream. At times he had to wake her up, when the ropes of her dreams were too tight for her mind to battle them alone.

But, even if they didn't talk about it, he would never ignore it. Every time she woke from a nightmare, he would always hold her, rock her through her sobs and talk softly through her silence. Every time she left the bed in the middle of the night to go sit in the kitchen, he would always follow her after a minute or two to make her tea.

It wasn't much, actually it was nothing compared to what she had done for him, but the little he could he did. He wished he could do so much more. Give her so much more. Answer her pleas, vanish her sin, bargain with the Gods, scatter her cries in the wind – but no, nowadays when she cried, she did it in the bathroom, locking the door the Muggle way and putting up formidable Wards and Silencing Charms, everything so he wouldn't hear or enter.

Because this was something he couldn't give her, forgiveness, and she knew, so she tried to hide from him. Because forgiveness wasn't his to give. He could only give her his love.

The only time they had almost broached the subject, he had asked if she regretted saving him. She had said she didn't.

He had never thanked her. But he had never told her she should have let him go either. Those were things she already knew.

"It gets better," he had said one night, after she had woken up from a nightmare once again. "I'm sorry."

And he was.

But a perverted part of him, one that still existed and would probably never die, admired what she had done to ensure that no curse could trap them in the forest. Somehow, she had known about the ancient tree.

Sometimes Tom asked himself what tormented Hermione the most, the sacrifice of a human or the murder of something sacred.

But then he looked at her and thought he didn't really want to know.

* * *

"Where's Feodor?"

Tom blinked groggily at Hermione. Fighting back a yawn, he sat up and scooted over to let her sit between him and a tipsy Black. The man had spent the last thirty minutes shovelling sweets down his throat and drinking beer while talking with Tom (or  _to_  Tom) about his favourite subject: women. At a certain point the discussion had taken an unexpected turn, seeing James and Peter joining in, and from women, the men had begun to talk about  _their_  women. There were things that even Tom didn't want to know, especially if the exchange of memories involved the mother of Harry Potter.

The woman was sitting in a chair now, Lucya in her arms, talking with Molly and the Grangers. He had never noticed how red her hair was. Darker than the flames dancing in the fireplace. It reminded him of another woman, walking in a cold, forgotten forest-

"He's still enjoying the party with Evelyn, isn't he?" Hermione said, taking the bottle of beer out of his hand.

"In your room." Tom took the bottle right back.

"No, I told Evelyn to take the guest room," she said, "and I'm not a child, you know."

"You can't drink."

Hermione made a face before lunging for the bottle again, but Tom held it away from her.

"Oh, come on!" Hermione protested, punching his arm. "I never get drunk. I haven't tasted a beer in, like, months!"

Tom mentally sighed. It wasn't that he feared she would get drunk, she never reached that state anyway, he simply didn't want her to assume alcohol. But he couldn't prevent her from drinking without a valid reason. And Tom knew she wasn't stupid and ignoring said reason on purpose because he believed she was truly oblivious to what was happening to her.

So he could do nothing without giving himself away, an option he had categorically rejected weeks ago, but do what he did best. He wandlessly Vanished the alcohol from the liquid and begrudgingly let Hermione have the bottle after she had punched and climbed over him some more.

"Spoilsport," she stuck her tongue out at him and drank.

They spent a few minutes in silence, half-heartedly listening to the conversations going on in the room and the soft music in background.

"I wanted to dance," Hermione murmured after a while. She rested her head on his shoulder and entwined their fingers.

He placed a kiss on the top of her head. "You should have told me when I was still sober."

Hermione gave a slight laugh. "It's just... I shouldn't' deserve it, dancing- enjoying myself. And the party-"

"No," Tom shushed her, squeezing her fingers. The party had been his idea. "You deserve it. You've been working so hard I've barely seen you the past three months. And look where you are now. Look where he is now."

Both Tom and Hermione looked up and saw Remus talking with Minerva, a sleepy Teddy sitting on his father's knees.

As soon as the rumours about the improved Wolfsbane Potion had reached the ears of the people sitting high at the Hogwarts Board of Governors, taking into account the recent success of his bookshop in Diagon Alley, Remus Lupin had been invited to resume his position as Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. The werewolf had accepted.

As for the shop, it remained propriety of Remus Lupin and Hermione Granger. The latter had surprised everyone when she had announced she intended to keep working at Flourish and Blotts and resign from her short-lived employment at the Ministry.

"I've obtained what I wanted," she had said.

So now, thanks to her position as consultant for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and as brain of the Golden Trio (and best friend of dear Harry Potter), Hermione Granger had the liberty of coming in and out of the Ministry whenever she wanted - usually not more than twice a week – and to present any idea that could better the rights of magical creatures and potentially be turned into a law or amendment.

And as she answered every time someone asked why she had chosen to give up on a full career into politics, she was a bookworm through and through.

Next to him, Hermione soundly deflated her chest.

Keeping her gaze on her family, she asked, "What happens now?"

Tom felt his body going rigid. He waited one second, two, before managing to joke, "We wait for Feodor and Evelyn to get their arses down here and then we go home?"

"You know what I mean." Of course he knew. She said again, "What now?"

Tom had a very clear idea of exactly what was going to happen now, but he remained silent until he felt her questioning eyes on him. He pulled his lips into a grimace of a smile that would have fooled no one, but fortunately Hermione was too drowsy to notice.

"I feel like there's nothing else to do," she said morosely.

 _Now you say that_ , he wanted to tell her.  _Wait a few months and you'll miss these moments of blissful idling._

She removed her hand from his and sank further in the cushions, tucking her knees up against her chest. "We have nothing to work on. Nothing to experiment."

"We'll find something," Tom reassured her.

On Hermione's other side, Sirius hiccuped and fell off the couch.

While everyone paused to laugh at the pathetic sight, Tom and Hermione exchanged a glance.

"An improved version of the Sober up Potion, maybe?" he suggested, raising his eyebrows.

Hermione threw back her head and laughed, making various eyes turn their way.

Severus raised his glass of wine in mock salute, smiling at him.

"Oh Merlin," Hermione wheezed, drying her tears with her sleeve. "Sirius needs one right now."

"No, love," James interjected, helping his friend back on the couch, "he didn't pass out, he's just tired. Busy day and all."

"Busy doing what?"

"You don't want to know, Hermione," Peter said, winking at her.

Hermione made a disgusted face.

* * *

One hour later saw them standing in the corridor, about to go home, with Tom looking at his reflection in the mirror while Hermione put on her jacket. He passed his hand through his curls and smirked at the perfect man staring back at him.

"It looks nice, my hair," he said, tilting his head one way and the other.

"You sound like Malfoy," Hermione snorted, checking her handbag to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything.

"I mean, it's back to normal."

"Lucky you."

Tom narrowed his eyes at her in the mirror. "What's the matter with you?"

Hermione stomped her foot. "You know hair is a sensitive subject for me."

"What?" Tom exclaimed disbelievingly. "No way, Granger-"

"It is, Tom." Remus nodded at him on his way out, followed by his family and a cheerful Sirius.

"Yep," Ron offered, following them.

Tom made to retort, but Lily and James passed too, smiling at him. The redhead offered him wise words, "In a couple, only one can be the narcissist and that's the woman. Not the man. Never the man."

Trailing behind them, Minerva and Severus nodded solemnly.

Then it was the Weasleys' turn. Arthur and Molly only bid them goodnight, smiling apologetically at Hermione.

"If you want to live," Harry Potter said to him when the last of the redheads had stepped out of the house, "don't mention her hair. And her teeth. And, um, cat hair."

Harry halted before the door, squinting dramatically at the ceiling. When he looked back at Tom, he shrugged, "Yes, that's about all. Goodnight kids."

When there was no one in the corridor but them, Tom leaned against the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. When he reopened them, sure enough Hermione was in front of the mirror, patting down her hair.

"Leave it alone," Tom said tiredly. "We're going home anyway."

"It looks horrible," Hermione muttered, but stepped away from the mirror. Bending over the umbrella stand, she glanced over her shoulder at him, "You thought the same the first time we met."

"I didn't," he lied, adding a  _bah_  to convince her of how ridiculous the idea was.

"Can you swear it?" Hermione dared him, preceding him out of the door. Tom followed her and closed the door behind them.

"I swear I love your hair," Tom stated.

Stopping on the step, she turned to appraise his eyes, how much sincerity they held. It screamed from his expression. There was nothing of hers that he didn't love.

Under the dim light coming out of her parents' house, Tom let Hermione take her time to study him, the planes of his face, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled at her, baring it all for her to read and take.

_Come on Hermione, it's me. Let me save you this time._

Hermione bit her lip.

She smiled then, thankful and sweet and real.

Tom couldn't describe how it felt, that weight on his chest that had threatened to suffocate him while taking her away from him, one moment it was there, the other it was gone. One moment he was alive, the other he was living again.

Walking down the deserted suburban street, Hermione snuggled closer to Tom and clung to his arm.

"Rowena is a nice name," she said casually.

As she walked beside him in the chilly air of the night, the moon glowing high in the black sky, Tom smiled. In relief. And joy.

"Or Remus," he said, "it's a very nice name."

He paused.

"Let's hope he doesn't have your hair, though."

Laughing, Hermione gave him a peck on the cheek. And Tom grinned like an idiot, feeling like howling at the moon, because, for the first time in his life, he knew what happiness was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone should have told me this was going to hurt. Finishing a long story. Damn, it hurts. But it had to end.
> 
> I'm sorry, I know I promised I would update yesterday, but I added another paragraph.
> 
> Again, I won't say anything about this epilogue. What matters is what you think. The good and the bad. Did you like it?
> 
> As always, I thank everyone for the reviews. My heart grows warm every time I read one.
> 
> And thank you, thank you for giving The Experiment a chance! Without you, this story would be meaningless.
> 
> Now, about the future: I'm editing Dark Games from chapter 1 and it won't take me long. After a long break, I'll return to update it regularly in a few days (every Thursday, as usual). For the old readers, I hope you'll appreciate the news. For the new readers, if you have time and would like to read something different, consider reading Dark Games, my other story. Only thing I should tell you, the chapters are super long, no kidding.
> 
> And, I'm working on another story for an AO3 challenge! At best, I'll post it after finishing Dark Games, at worst, I'll chain myself to the chair, keep OpenOffice open 24/7, and post both stories at the same time. Yay, I can't wait! (But I love this hobby so I would do it all with a big smile on my face!)
> 
> The title of this last, upcoming venture? Human Touch. Please, Bruce, don't sue me.
> 
> Dark, probably darker than anything I've written so far, but more on the psychological side, this story will be told from Hermione's POV, possibly Tom's later on. It's the first time I'm letting Hermione, or a female character in general, be the main character. I love writing from the male point of view, but it's time to step out of the comfort zone.
> 
> The plan is to keep it short. By short I mean longer than The Experiment but definitely shorter than Dark Games (considering ch 14 as the limit since DG goes on.) Guys, if you want in, hop on and stay tuned!
> 
> Everyone, thank you again! See you on the other side (:
> 
> EDIT: A few people are asking what exactly happened in the forest and if the creation of other horcruxes is involved.
> 
> I actually didn't explain that part on purpose, but I don't mind clearing this up - even if I prefer to not dwell on endings.
> 
> So, if you prefer to finish the story with your own interpretation, close the tab. I won't judge your choice. I love open endings too. But sometimes even a short elucidation on something confusing can make the difference in our perception of a story. But, again, if you don't want to know, DON'T READ THE REST OF THIS NOTE.
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> No, no more Horcruxes. Hermione sacrifices a person to save Tom's soul. Tom's ritual healed his soul, but like repaired pottery, it has cracks, so it's not enough and Hermione knows, or guesses. The sacrifice of another human fills those cracks and helps Tom have the choice of either going back or go on. As for the repairing process, think of kintsugi, but a much darker version of it.
> 
> Of course the soul of that other person is sacrificed as well. That's why Hermione won't sleep at night. She uses dark magic that not even Tom used to make his horcruxes (those sacrifices didn't involve the souls of the victims, as we witness through Myrtle's ghost).
> 
> I actually wrote Hermione's pov for the sacrifice scene, just so I could have a clear idea of what was happening, but I didn't add it in part 7 for one reason: this story isn't about Hermione. Tom is the main character.
> 
> When Tom sees the body, he sees the person, but he doesn't name them. It's not important, because now his soul is whole and, despite having to repent for his sins for the rest of his life, he knows he can receive forgiveness, in this life or in a future one. It's cruel on my part, but yes, for Tom that sacrifice doesn't matter any more. That weight is not for him to carry, but for Hermione. "It didn't matter any more" he says.
> 
> And Hermione's soul? It's intact. Loaded with sins, but intact. Not only she killed a person, but she also killed a sacred deity.
> 
> Why? To break the curse, so the tree couldn't chain her soul, and Tom's, to the forest, like it did with the Grey Lady and the Bloody Baron. This means the Bloody Baron is free. The Grey Lady? I don't know. It's her choice, if you know what I mean.
> 
> Is Tom going to live for ever? No. But you know what they say about old habits- nah, just kidding. They gave him another chance and he'll live this life to the fullest. Or so I hope.


End file.
